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The Street

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A door opened before her, closed behind her.
A girl, a dog, hurried past her down the street—her street—
off to the peace front?
Just as withered winter spiny, silver fingers found the way under
her coat, the soft haunting of warm memories struck her.
The girl looked like her.

The air felt tangible, pressing in against her skin
Her house—the first house—guarded the street she lived on
For she lived in all these houses, breathed with the noises of yesterday
sweet. There was many such a day with the—
—the musician, the prophet, and the Gemini
—old man, the adolescent boy, and the twin sisters.

Even before she was taking lessons from him,
There was music and bright lights from his house.
After two hundred times, after one hundred times of being yelled at,
she had never seen anyone happier, as he embraced her,
“Lovely”. When she left, she still owed him two lessons,
Dvorak Violin Sonatina in F, and a loathing.

The boy—the brother that brought her up
—who taught her the real wrongs and wrong rights.
He had jumped the gate, and let her in. She closed
the gate, and jumped over herself. He had taught
her well. When she left, she still owed him three
kisses, a dinner, and her maturity.

A week before school started, the three shared
ice pops. Shy and similar, they sat across from her on the couch,
silent. And there were secret clubs, play pretend, and candy.
There were carpools, high school and lies. There were still
shy and similar. When she left, she still owed them
a couple dollars, a shopping trip, and her fame.

She walked inside, up the stairs, and slid out a little box
from under the bed. She opened the lid, some flimsy wallpaper,
stared, stroked at the faded memories inside. She paused—

Let the reluctance—
hang in the air like an awkward sentiment.

breathed, and climbed in,
all her smokey, whispy trails following obediently
in.





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