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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Occasionally, I find myself back in the old neighborhood. It looks slanted and aseptic-like an abortion clinic. All of the old trees have been gleaned from the streets there are the no hedges separating the houses there are no weeds on the lawns they look soft and pastel perfect... Weed killer wasn't in full vogue yet. I see my old childhood home it looks better than what I remember Siding replacing worn shingles but something is horribly o f f. If I see somebody come out of my home I may have to kiss then kill them. A short distance away trains used to careen down the tracks my brother hopped on one once and ran away. He vanished for about three days then came home looking filthy but refreshed. When he got back, he never talked about it much but I knew freedom had been good to him. He was grounded for a week for his hobo run. Less than three years later he would never return. I came home from school one afternoon. My father slowly walked over toward me with a look I'd never seen before. He told me that my puppy slipped under the fence and sniffed its way onto those train tracks. He kept the details as aseptic as possible, like all good fathers tend to do. That same train that took my brother to freedom also took my pup to a different flavor of freedom. For a couple of years after, I'd fire rocks at the train I felt both powerful and pitiful like the limestone rocks that bounced off the metal cars with a yellowish puff. When the caboose was in site I would retreat into the shadows of the trees and overgrown hedges that are no longer there. Anyway, this will be my last visit to the old neighborhood. Everything once so familiar and comforting is gone. There are no more funerals to go to or old friends to see no oak trees or weeds. The pink bubble of security burst a long time ago There's nothing left for me here anymore. I Leave as a puff of limestone rock against a metal wall of memory.
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