Sandblasting the 90s

The hose hits the brick where I used to wait

for my brother to finish his shift by the gate.

Now the grey slurry runs toward the drain,

taking the soot and the October rain.

The rough wall used to scratch through my shirt

when we’d sit in the dark and talk through the dirt.

Now the red is too bright, the alley too clean,

like the years we spent here were never even seen.