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Cracks in the SidewalkBy Nicole Zelniker QuailBellMagazine.com  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. CommentsComments are closed.
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