Poem

The Houses Aren't There Anymore

The houses aren't there anymore.
Just some rubble
and seeds that won't take.

The only movement
is plastic that ripples
in the wind.
Upturned bones
of broken frames
white in the moon's light.

I drive by some nights
when I can't sleep,
spy through windows
no longer there.
Faces look back at me.

Each time I hope
they'll wave me in,
night doors
swinging open.

But the faces remain still,
their plate expressions
staring the simple truth—
it's not the lack,
but what comes after.

*
Photographer Pawel Uniatowicz
Poem completed 3/2014