The Blind Spot

The sidewalk has a jagged crack

right by the rusted gate.

It looks like a map of a riverbed

or a lightning strike of fate.

I walk this path ten times a week

and yet, if you asked me the shade

of the house on the corner, the one with the porch,

I’d watch the whole memory fade.

Is the doorknob brass or a silver plate?

I touch it to enter the hall.

But I couldn't tell you the shape of the metal

if my life depended on the call.