THE  27Th  EDITIOn

I’ve driven this road so many times now

I can’t remember getting here.

To the right, the remains of a Carrows or Coco’s,

something C. The sign still hangs

with ghosts of missing letters.

To the left, my daughter’s old daycare,

now a fitness center. In the mirror

she’s still kicking in her car seat,

pointing at everything we pass.

Shortly before my mother died

the two collected leaves

and made rubbings on white paper.

(Now it’s illegal to rub headstones.)

It was summer

but the crayon colors they chose were autumnal,

so I’ll always think it was fall.

Across the street

a construction site, the perimeter fenced off

in green to make you think it’s grass.

But through a gap I see

packed dirt and pile foundations.

The light changes. Odd, I can’t

remember what used to be—

a forest, a cathedral, a graveyard