“Places, Then, Now”
My parents lived in a barn’s second floor when first married,
Gray and white chickens and three red milk cows below.
Hay, bats and birds around and above their first home.
I never imagined I’d have a house.
Now, I do, a large one, with jungly yards.
The Mexican bus bumps along, drizzle on the windshield.
A sad song plays over a speaker by the hunched driver:
“It’s a house, not a home, without you.”
The words make sense.
I see her gone.
Sad, like the song…
The universe, about 14 billion years old,
The stars, just a little younger.
No houses then.
No homeless man crossing the street with his dog to an empty field,
Beach umbrella his roof under a tree.
A car hitting his dog.
The dog squealing, rolling over, breathing slowing
The man going to his umbrella tree home.
No woman with a car as big as a house, parking and running into a store;
Buying shampoo, lipstick and batteries.
The song, true ….