The road has no streetlights.
There are houses with shutters and
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.