House On 2nd Street

The new house was shiny, all re-done
uptown, upclass, upneighborhood,
not a single soul loafing aimlessly
no dealers or addicts or children in the streets.
Mother and Father speak to me in turns,
a tennis ball lobbed back and forth
so dutiful in their parental concern, as I sit
uninterested in their garden growing chatter,
silent and gaze affixed on nothingness outside the window.  Quiet, finally,
and only the hum of my own thoughts
a world more vibrant, and lovely,
roaming the sapphire hills of an over-able imagination.
I do not notice their glances, those worried fearful looks
moving ’round me with fixed gestures,
discussions behind secreative palms, with uneasy eyes
keeping a safe distance from the crazy person’s reach.
Troubled for the hour ride, helpless
like wrinkled coondog pups, whimpering desperate appeals after
tossed into the water for their first swim.
Their concern only lasts as long as they’re trapped in a car with me.
Afterwards I’m released, pedaling down
across the railroad tracks, to the faded areas
old shotgun houses and trailers.
The tiny porch and whitewashed trim
sagging baby blue hydrangeas and the blackened fence
where dad set it on fire.
Seems so tiny now, ghost pale and fragile
fragments sifting away in humid breeze,
like whitewashed grains of sand.