On Google Earth

One night, you enter the name of the street 
where you lived in childhood. You drop 
the red navigational marker on the corner 
and drag the arrows across the square—up 
to the church and around the block of tailors, 
past the newstands and vendors of hot
peanuts and grilled chicken livers
and feet. From the schoolyard it's a short 
walk to where the pedicabs and jeepneys 
parked under the bridge. Billboards 
and signs are an unreadable blur, but 
with a left click and hold, you reach
the part of the neighborhood you want 
to see. It looks familiar but everything has
a bluish tint, in the way that old Polaroids
do. The neighbor's magnolia trees are still
there, though they look shrunken and bereft
of blossom. And the house, your house?
A rusted gate tilts to the left, held in place
by the corner of the next-door apartment 
building. Were the living room windows
always framed by a double arch? 
Nothing stirs behind glass. Was the roof 
always that dented shade of green?  
From your limited angle of surveillance, 
you can't tell if the front door's  
the original, with beveled inlays and
 a peephole. You can't tell what state 
of ruin it's in, or whether you're 
really looking at the right thing.