Soluble

The neighbor’s hose runs a steady stream

across the grit of the driveway seam.

It carries a river of soap and dirt

over the marks of a child’s short spurt

of genius—a yellow, crooked square

that used to have windows and people there.

Now it’s a smear on the concrete grain,

a sun being bled by a man-made rain.

It doesn't take much to unmake a home

when the foundation is dust and foam.

I watch the color go thin and pale

until there is nothing left of the tale.