What the Shoulder Blade Remembers

The scaffolding went up sometime in spring.

By the time I walked past, the brick

was already white—not eggshell, not old-house white,

that clean aggressive white

that means: this has been decided.

I stood there trying to remember

if the wall was rough or smooth.

The shoulder blade knows.

The shoulder blade has kept records

I never thought to check.

All I can say is that I leaned there,

Thursday afternoons, winter mostly,

the cold working through my jacket

while headlights swung through the parking lot

like something looking for something.

Now a scaffolding pole throws a shadow

across the place I used to be.

The shadow is more specific

than my memory.