Not Ours Anymore

I drove past the house and it wasn't mine anymore.

The porch was different—new railing, new wood,

new color I didn't recognize, new floor.

The place where I used to sit, where I understood

myself in the afternoons, was erased

and replaced with something I don't know.

The steps were steeper, the space redesigned,

and I couldn't even tell you where to go

if you asked me to find the place

where I used to think, where the sun

hit the old boards in a particular way,

where something I needed had come

from sitting there long enough.

Now it's someone else's memory.

New people are building their own

version of what this place means.

I drove away. Didn't stop.

Couldn't. The thing I was looking for

was already gone, already replaced,

and I'm someone who doesn't belong there anymore.