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The house in which I now

find myself offers up cues

to childhood, to years past

coming back as if wired

directly into my senses:

the walls of heat in the attic

and the smell of cardboard

and dust, the earthy cool of

the basement, the burbling

lawnmowers and the cut

grass coloring my shoes

and tickling my nose with

its slight peppery sweetness.

The bills come, as they

surely did then, monthly,

and I can't look at a wall

or window for too long before

deciding it needs attention.

Still, friends are a walk or

a bike ride away, no plan needed.

Still, I open a heavy door and

a basketball bounces in the

street, and the ice cream truck's

song shifts down a step as it

passes, a bittersweet modulation

as things stay the same and

we move through them like

the high, harmless clouds

in the July sky.