Absence

The main street in the photo is smaller,

or I've grown taller, or memory's

a liar that shrinks things down.

The diner is still there, probably,

the way these things stay, running on

without me watching.

This is what leaving does—

it doesn't erase the place,

just erases your face

from the moment it keeps living.

The town goes on, indifferent

to my version of it, to the fact

that I remember it differently,

that my remembering doesn't stick.