Half-Life of a ZIP Code

The photo shows the grandstand ribs laid bare,

the wooden planks all splintered in a pile.

I haven't breathed that yellow, dusty air

in what feels like a hundred thousand mile.

Davey sent the link and asked me when

I'm coming back to see the new paved lot.

He’s still the same as he was back at ten,

while I’ve forgotten half of what I got.

I remember the fence behind the gym,

how the rusted chain-link used to bite.

A scrap of red jersey, ragged and slim,

snagged on a wire in the Friday light.

It’s probably still there, or buried deep,

under the gravel where the trucks all pull.

I have secrets I didn't mean to keep,

and a hollow heart that used to be so full.