Walking my neighborhood


all these houses I walk by repeatedly
wondering how many, how long,
internal traffic patterns, weather patterns, variable densities,
what’s dissolving in them, what’s growing
plots and hobbies, blank-faced hours, walls that slowly skitter
when it’s raining nowhere but in that room
air holes, light holes, surreptitious drainage
a garage that’s now storage, a roof that’s almost ripe

rooms that live, dine, bathe
a room no one owns
making room, room to roam, taking up space
taking down walls or notes
whether a flat or multiple stories

signs of dogs, trespassers, past homes,
future plans, what all matters,
visible and invisible securities, a window
watching me, a door who only knows one word

un-sidewalked curbs anchored by
vehicles that haven’t moved in years
a window not designed to open
underground garages, fall out shelters
too deep to access, pipes going up a chimney

the surprise of fresh paint, the expected loose siding
a new color of grass, a tree that swears the sun hasn’t risen
for years, where two unimproved streets cross
where the only stop sign’s in the middle of the intersection
no yields, no lanes, only slow children play here
some dead end signs lying or misunderstood

helicopters under the ground, clouds too shy
to be seen, the alarm starts before the engine
enough car doors closing to emulate morse code
satellite dishes ready to fire back, programmable fences
homes there’s more taken away from than delivered

a for sale sign fallen randomly from the sky
the weekly letters from folks who’ve never
been here but want to pay me well
to be houseless


dan raphael