New Paint on the Crime Scene

I drove past the place on Willow Street

because I wanted to see if the ghost was still there.

But someone hung yellow curtains, loud and sweet,

where I used to sit and pull out my hair.

The light still hits the radiator in the hall

at four o’clock, I can see it from the curb.

But there’s a new bike leaning against the wall

and a silence I no longer have the right to disturb.

It’s a strange thing to be evicted from a memory

by a stranger’s choice in window dressing.

I’m just a witness to a dead century,

looking for a home that’s finished with its confessing.