Today they tore down the blue house at 435 Summit Ave E.
The smell stopped me in the street
It had rained earlier and left the pile of fir and tamarack boards,
matchsticks snapped before they lit, to get wet for the first time in sixty years.
Tired neighbors walked dogs around me and I became indignant.
They could not see it.
I was instantly lonely and wished someone would kiss me.
I entertained nonsense.
Does wood remember how rain felt
and I wonder
if that guy Paul, who lived in the blue house,
still squeezes girls waists with his hands when he hugs them.
I hate that guy for touching me like that.
And now this place with its insides out for everybody was invading me.
Dust and earth, lead based paint, half of a door,
a broken toilet, it made me quietly happy.
the pregnant promise of solitary misdeeds
a fire I could warm my hands on.
The whole lot was surrounded by a chain link fence.
I had two glasses of whiskey and walked home, got half undressed,
and practiced all of the things I wanted to say to you
into the mirror over the bed.
