Seven Years and a Block I Don't Use

The construction pushed me left

onto a street I don't know.

It was almost eleven.

A two-family house, brick,

a low vent near the foundation running warm.

I stopped.

Completely stopped, mid-stride,

one foot still up.

The air came out fabric softener and heat —

not a brand I could name,

not a smell exactly,

just the temperature of it,

the way it rose and went soft

under the streetlight

and was gone.

Seven years ago.

An apartment.

I can't place the address.

Can't picture the window.

Can't name whose dryer

was running at that hour.

I stood there for a full minute.

A minute is a long time

in front of a stranger's house.

I walked on.

The smell was still there

for about ten steps.

Then it wasn't.