According to the caption, strangers now pay to sleep in what used to be my childhood home. When I hover the mouse over the aerial photos produced by Google Earth, I can't tell if the garage gate that sagged from clotheslines tied to it has been fixed; or if the crawl space beneath the roof has finally been turned into a room. The lot next door has become a gas station; there are little stores and eating places strewn about the once leafy neighborhood where children sat in large packing boxes and launched themselves from the top of the road to land in a heap at the bottom. I know any reconstruction from memory is a lie, including this one—though it's supposed to have been updated in real time. For time has always been more real than the orange glow of numbers on a screen, and also more personal, even as it comes and goes—turning to grey and silver the hairs on our heads, softening folds of skin.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.