You push aside your empty plate
to look at your old neighborhood.
There was a wooden fence on one side, a metal one on the other,
trees here and here,
by your napkin and the edge of the table.
Retelling your game of kick the can,
it doesn't matter if I don't understand.
You tell yourself anyway.
And I listen to the picture and I make it in my mind.
At first, it's even you, between two fences, one wood one metal.
But then they disappear,
along with the can and trees, here and here.
And soon it's me, looking for your car
in the parking lot we drive by each day.
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