dead end

Surreal is the sound of a sub woofer invading the pinkish light at dusk. This street once held its secrets quietly, one could see the light undisturbed.

Trees bent over chip and tar, curbs cut gutter deep run edging for grass where the ditch once spoke to my play.

That foolish venture into the culvert, the shedding of clothes in its wash those dog day afternoons speak to my youth. Yelling when the one neighbor past came or went and the makeshift road hockey nets had to be pulled aside. " Car" was the cry!

Shadowy silhouettes outside the picture window create an illusion of past. That two tiered outline once the end of the road, last house opposite side of the family home.

With night comes a stillness, false as it may be one can recall Third Avenues glory days.

Early nights spent hurrying through growing pains. Darkness a shield, a comforter, we took liberty's under her blanket. Raid a garden, share a smoke even steal a kiss. Kids owned dusk. Where are the kids today? How do they earn a memory?

My street is now an artery. People only pass along it going someplace else.

I remember being so eager to leave no never mind was paid to memory. My head filled with things the heart new nothing of I took steps in haste.

My street is an artery where a heart once was.

Did I do that?