It was spitting and wet but I needed
the walk up the small hill, past the Elks
Lodge where the gates of the houses are
new, or they're scarred. Where the pink
flamingos are offset only by the white
swans in the otherwise bare yards.
And I wonder if I wasn't out walking
at the very same time as you setting
off for the cafe and me for a break from
the paper, flat envelope I'd accidentally
brought with me like a clipboard, like
a manila flag, as I leaned into the tiny
incline toward this house I remember,
remodeled and for sale and there
one half of an antique green gate shutter
stood staring back where the staircase like
six layer adobe cake, called me to come in
out of the nearly invisible hailstone
weather.
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