Day 398

The streets you walked since childhood
are gone.  The buildings
your classes were in, the bakery,
the café where you sat
with your friends for long hours.
The table stacked with sweets
and coffee, the one chair
that wobbled, a leg too short.
They’re gone now:  the chairs, the tables.
The yellow awning.  The cigarettes,
their lit ends punctuating the night.
The friends with their shouting,
their laughter.  What was it 
you’d been talking about?  What
was your side of the argument
that seemed so crucial?  The poet
you liked, whom others didn’t?
A memory someone thought
mistaken?  You’d walk home,
still conjuring responses, 
as a fine rain started falling
and cars with their stippled
headlights turned the corner.
How could all that
have disappeared, become
dust and grief?