Where the Swing Was

They painted it a green I can't name—

not the one it was. I sat in my car

too long, watching. A rental now. The same

address. Different everything. From that far

you could still see the hooks—two holes

they painted around, not over. Small

and fixed there. Someone else controls

the porch now. Someone else's call,

what hangs there. I wasn't going to knock.

I just needed to see the wrong color

for a minute. Take stock.

Then go. I watched it duller

in the evening light. Drove home.

Made dinner. Tried to sleep.

The hooks stayed with me—two holes, alone

up in the ceiling. Nothing to keep

up there. The paint fresh around each one

like whoever did the job just went around.