the duplex on st. michael street

or, is this what he meant when he said u can't go home again?

huh? nothing?

ms. harris's big old frame house on the corner is still there
with a saxophone logo plastered on the side
by some radio call letters
but the yard next door, where i lived in the duplex on the left
for ten years, talked with the dog, grew tomatoes and twisty zuchhini in the summer sun,
watched mockingbirds get the figs and squirrels the pecans,
asked jack about his annual summer trip to europe,
tried fruitlessly to form a band,
learned applesoft basic and 6502 assembler,
watched missy turn the corner on her bike only to run into a swerving car,
tried fruitlessly to console her shrieking grief-wracked mother,
saw m's sister holler at them niggers to get the hell out of the yard
after i had invited them in,
listened to flying cockroaches whirr about from my bed at night,
discovered the seat and wheels missing from my raleigh's blue frame still
chained to the wrought-iron porch support...
sauted onions and garlic in olive oil to impress a girl,
jawed new-age jive with short darkhaired lila,
stacked hundreds of beercans,
turned the dining room into a flourescent study,
fell asleep alistenin' to talking heads and clash and weather report
spinning on my AR turntable suspended between brown deedle-ball-covered cloth loops hanging from steel ceiling hooks
so one could walk by the stereo without making the needle skip,
provided crash pad and sympathetic ears and a shared dream for teresa in her strung-out time of need

...nothing left on that spot but green grass anchoring limp clothesline on rusty poles.
next year i reckon it'll be upscale condos grinding out their own memories.
wtf