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He looked at me in hesitation and confusion when I told him
his home was once my home and I would like to look around.
His wife invited me in. She was a fat woman, fat and sensuous

who wore a tight skirt around her ample body, exposing soft
skin, white, smooth and inviting, walking like a cat, a large cat
purring, showing her house which was once my house or at least

my Mother’s house, who did not purr, though she loved cats
though she was a fat woman, not a sexy woman, not a woman
at peace with her body, but she was queen of her kitchen, which

no longer exists.  Gone—the coal stove which burned all winter,
keeping the kitchen cozy; gone—the kitchen table tight by the back
wall, where we had our meals, conversations, conflicts; gone—

the old radio above the door, where I stood on a chair not wanting
to miss a word of the Lone Ranger; gone—the sink by the window;
gone—the window, replaced by an extension built into the garden,

the walls even the roof made transparent, transforming the kitchen,
the house the atmosphere, making it bright and cheerful and I
realized that my old home was a dark home, we all lived in dark

homes, never expecting the light of the outside to be a part of the inside,
never expecting to feel as free inside as outside and now my home
is obliterated, the interior sunlight burning away my faded memories

my Mother in her realm turned to ashes. Only the formal and infrequent
presence of my Father is preserved—guest, landlord, odd job man
face in newspaper, tyrant—impervious to time and the bright interior

of this strange place which has no history or at least no history
of its prior owners.  Also gone—the garden of my memory, my
playground, my gymnasium, my bright extra room, the lawn

where I practiced walking on empty paint barrels, my Father painting
the stucco walls white, why I never understood, his time so limited
me falling and breaking my arm, he rushing me to hospital, the long
wait in a long corridor, my arm hurting, me leaning against
my Father’s comforting body, the only time I remember such
physical intimacy, that garden is gone, the lawn is gone,

the fruit trees are gone, those apple, pear and cherry trees that
lined the lawn and which I climbed almost to the top, the branches
that broke, the arrested falls, the bones that didn’t break, the white

nets my Father spread over branches heavy with cherries in a valiant
attempt to foil the birds. Gone—the vegetable garden that I had to weed
replaced by a paved patio with potted plants, cute flea market metal

sculptures with eyes and awkward arms, the cat woman, her large form
displaying her space, talked of the neighborhood, how she had always
loved this house even before she improved this house, living just down

the road isn’t that so she calls to her husband sitting in a corner
reading a newspaper, he answers in a short simple sentence
while her sentences continues with endless subordinate clauses

as voluminous as her body, as I looked around, looking for ghosts
remembered filling up kerosene heaters all winter long
in the dark space behind the garage which also no longer exists,

turned into an extra bedroom, the garage so tight my father had to
squeeze past to start the car or push it out to start it on damp winter
mornings, straining with a hand crank until my Mother threw a fit

and forced him to buy something modern and reliable that did not
need to be babied and coaxed and stroked but started right away
giving him more time to study the racing form, more time to ensure

my hair was combed, my tie straight before I rushed out the back
door, collect my bike tucked behind the car in that tiny garage
and off to school, which the cat woman gleefully told me no longer

existed, torn down for more houses, the playing fields also torn
up for more houses, but the lake, the reservoir, the recreational
center for the town was still there, but there was no more boating

no more swimming, it was too polluted, but the path around it,
through the woods, where I tried to kiss a girl, has been widened
and paved, very convenient for mothers with strollers, you should

go there she said, it is very nice but the more she talked the more
I needed to shorten this visit to my old neighborhood, but first I
asked to look at my old bedroom upstairs, which had not been improved

and looked cramped and claustrophobic, but of the two upstairs rooms
I could not remember which was mine and which was my sister’s,
I walked between both rooms, looked out the windows, looked

into the street and looked into the garden, but I could not recall which
was the space I protected from my sister’s prying presence.
Lost, I descended down the narrow stairs, through strange rooms

that had once been living room, dining room, doors replaced with arches
the past replaced by another’s presence, memory replaced by the present
shadows replaced by unforgiving light, whenever you are in the neighborhood

the cat woman smiled, come and visit, holding my hand I certainly will,
I replied, we both knew we were lying as she closed the door. The one
icon that remained, the one icon I had expected to be destroyed

still stood tall at the end of the street. A magnificent oak
which had towered over the neighborhood, which I had climbed
and explored whenever no neighbors were prying, whose girth

was greater than four stretching arms, which had shaded childish
games, showered abundant acorns, witnessed fights and frolics—
it still towered, still stood tall, its great limbs impervious to time.