Alone I walk
through the boarded-up streets of home
over the dirty streets
stained by the loss of childhood
reeking of mediocracy
I walk past the alleys
and the school
where more lives were swallowed
than I dare to count
I stop in front of an old house
where Mrs. Jones always used to hold out her arms to us children
inviting us inside
and I remember how I never ran as fast as I could have
to eat the cookies she made for us
I walk past all the houses where artists, musicians, lovers, dreamers
all settled for a picket fence.
A lamplight lights my way
as I turn for home.
There must be others like me who walk
At night.