But computers put me on the streets
And roads as they exist yet,
Frozen in the hot sun.
What I recognize is not
What I remember; memory’s
Created by the brain, flush
An old wall of rough stones,
Shabby on the screen,
Resonates with dreams of teetering on top
And leaping gaps for gates.
A shattered block of building wrecks,
Vacant lots and weeds,
Glows with ghosts of businesses
Filled with food and friendly talk.
The shuttered church,
Still neatly kept, but silent,
Hums with Sunday schools and dinners,
Funerals and weddings, long ago.
And the houses, the ones I know,
Almost come alive again,
Repopulated by the family I love
And never will forget.
©10/3/2016 John I. Blair