Puff From a Limestone Rock
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.
Copyright © Anthony Biaanco | Year Posted 2025
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