They fall like toy sentinels, one by one,
before the entrance to the battered door
that traps in heat and keeps away the hoar
frost of impending grief. Youth’s taped rerun
of first bliss is worn. Spring’s warm, schoolmarm sun
now sports the wan demeanor of a store
clerk. Life grants me just enough light to pore
over receipts before the workday’s done
and the store closes. Former bustling streets
are empty and their neon signs torn down
along with delis selling ice and sweets.
Grown kids have moved their own kids out of town.
I’m at the crossroads where the graveyard meets
the grandson in his graduation gown.
