Property Lines

The detour signs pointed me down the old street

where the curb still has that chip from my truck.

But the grass has been cut much too short and neat,

and the driveway is clear of the usual muck.

A plastic slide sits where I used to keep the wood,

and the porch light is a blue, medicinal glare.

It doesn't look like a place where I ever stood

or left a single thumbprint anywhere.

I didn't slow down. There was no one to wave.

The windows were dark, reflecting the sky.

It’s strange how a house can become a grave

for the people we were before we said goodbye.