The road has no streetlights.

There are houses with shutters and

yellow windows.

You used to be astounded by the

lawns, how they groped for the curb

and overran it.

You took a train from the city

and lay down in the grass.

At the corner, there is the post office

and the fairgrounds,

and the station. The roof

tiles peel when it rains.

You stand by the awning

and your coat drips.

There's the old woman

who passes afternoons

clipping her neighbors'

azaleas. You look out the window

and she's there in the yard

with a pair of shears and a basket.

You remember the house on

Passmore St where you grew up.

Your mother might still be there now,

ironing your button-downs

with an orange cat curled

around her ankles.

You moved out here for the silence.

You didn't count on the yawning

garages, or the dark, or on missing

the noise and the voices.