6275 Bell Place
The worn path home
cuts across an empty lot.
Grocery bags hang from my arms,
and I make one more engraving
of feet into dust. Even the fire hydrant
seems to sweat on this summer night.
I pass the house of Ms. Maggio,
the salsa instructor. Her door is cracked,
and she is dancing with a student,
red curtains drawn back.
Three jars of tomato sauce
weigh my shoulders down.
I pass houses whose windows flare
soft blue with the lights of television.
One couple sprawls across the couch,
the smell of jasmine thick along their fence line.
When I arrive, I will write a poem to this place,
this night like many others, when I tread
the crossways of the corner lot
and miss home, months before I leave.