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Cracks in the Sidewalk
By Nicole Zelniker
Yesterday, I came across the street where you lived,
Thinking intently of Olive Garden breadsticks
And the price of Grand Central train tickets.
I hadn’t been there in years, since you moved
And took my childhood with you, all packed
In your trunk, like a crowd at a circus in July.
Men in hard yellow hats were no longer there,
But the spider-webbed cracks in the sidewalk were,
Waiting to trip absent-minded passers-by.
Sometimes, I miss you. I think about the apartment
And wonder what your life is like in New Jersey,
Contemplate visiting the room I’ve never seen.
More often, I hate you. I think about living with you,
Not in the city but in the old house, and I remember
Why I stopped seeing you all together.
Mostly, I feel nothing towards you. You
Are a stranger, an unpleasant dream I once had
Where I felt I was falling until I woke up.