Oak Street
Houses don't have shutters anymoreAnd streets aren't made of bricks,
Chipped and rounded at the edges,
Mortared by dead leaves and weeds.
The worn cobbled chinks of childhood
That bounded a whole world then.
Even sidewalks, the common paths
That connected us to common ground,
Have disappeared, each house now
As unconnected as the lives we guard
As though there is safety in separation.
But here nothing much has changed
In the fifty years that I've been gone.
Fewer lighted windows and open doors
Perhaps, and if there are children
Now they no longer play after dark.
At the end of the block is the same
Leaning street light, the sidewalk
Uprooted by linden and sycamore.
And you realize you can go back again
But never come back, and you're not sure
You would want to; what's changed is you.
It all seems a little too sad and old now
And reminds you too much of yourself.
Even your words don't belong anymore
And you're lost in an old man's poem.
Poetry by countryfog
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Written on 2010-12-24 at 15:36
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