Can anyone tell me
what happened to the cracks on the sidewalk
from the air conditioner’s drip
or the air conditioner itself,
Mr. Thompson stooping to turn it on
every evening at 5:15
whose cursing I heard
all the way from the street?
Where are the women
leaning on the building for cool,
the beautiful shoulders of the youngest,
the brass of her laugh
and the neon sign for Coffee Bait & Beer—
the Buick rolling up the road,
its silver wheels
the man with one leg
shorter than the other
the stack of gas bills
the orange hat Gerald wore
the oak’s side crusted with sap . . . .
There is no ledger
for the groans from the house on the corner
and the way they sidled out to the porch after
with one glass of sweet tea between them—
the stack of water bills
the warped card table Mrs. Gallagher left out
in case people came to call
the wooden chair
a scratching under the house
the box of ornaments
under the eaves
the antique piano Lena played, humming
Is you is or is you ain’t
my baby?
They are like clouds passing over—
some mornings I wake emptied
longing for her shoulders,
the wounded oak still
