Dawn Terrace

Don’t talk about the incident down the street.

And don’t go out at night.

When a pet doesn’t return, it means

they met with a pair of headlights.

Drivers won’t give you their condolences,

they won’t pause to see if it’s alright.

But the family in the green house

still tapes posters to traffic signs.

They built a brown fence

surrounding their oasis,

and from this spot on my porch,

I barely saw over the barricade.

Their father didn’t wear a belt

their Solo cups were filled with lemonade.

I saw the kids dig a hole in the dirt,

overheard their dreams of seeing

China, but they filled it with water

and called it their swimming pool.

Every time a stray cat appeared,

so did a bowl of food.

The pile of wood along the house

is a hide-away for the cats.

It’s a hide-away for the kids.

The five rooms were crowded with relatives.

Kids sat on the steps of the porch for dinner

balancing paper plates in their laps.

There weren’t enough seats surrounding the table.

Late at night, I could still hear their laughs.

There was a great view of the train tracks,

the kids would count the carts to see

who’ll be the first to spot the caboose.

A dozen times they’ve come knocking

because they accidentally threw

their lab’s ball over my fence and into my yard.

They made steppingstones of concrete, painted them rainbow

Placed them in a garden that never seemed to grow.