Yes,
said the street,
with its dirty bungalows,
its houses,
all built to resemble nothing,
a conspiracy of ugliness,
of wasted energy,
indifference to beauty or kindness.
Yes,
said the street,
no one lives here.
The old woman went away,
her children scattered to different seasons.
One died in winter,
the others followed the ridge tops
of worn out mountains.
Why do you come back to see me?
I have nothing to give you.
These houses grew one by one
and drove away their dreams.
But you were full of dreams.
You played in stardust,
tasted roses,
blamed no one,
and now a part of you breaks,
seeing me for the first time.
I am the street of your wagons,
your kites,
the tufa stone of your garden.
What is it you want, old man?
I loved the child in you.
It is still there.
Give me time, and another like you
will come along,
between ice ages.
But now is not the time
to collect the things
you lost in leaving.
Come back when the perch bite,
and the boats edge into the Bay,
and the woman returns as a girl,
looking for you on my crowded sidewalks.