31 Hickory Street

The street I lived on
Was broad and crowned.
But tree-lined, like an allee;
Frozen, unremembered
At the wanton end
Of a town called America.

Broad, maybe even grand
But truncated, almost stubby
Ragged at the blind end
Like a sentence cut short;
Or an arm partly lost
To a moment of carelessness.

With the shirt sleeve folded
Over the elbow and pinned,
There’s a story in that fold
To be sure; but who can tell
Who still knows it?
Who knows these things?