Like a trifle, it was all built up from sponge.
And I miss those days when I used to beat the streets.
And I miss the yellow leaves padding the black.
And I miss peeking over your fence to see if you’re there.
And I miss peeking through the glass to see the stuff
Of your apartment, what blankets, or chairs, or cats.
And I miss dropping six warm quarters into the slot,
And getting the fat Sunday paper in its yellow sleeve.
I miss all the bathrooms smelling like gingerbread,
And the dryer chutes shooting vanilla into the streets,
And reading the circulars for back-to-school sales,
And stacking the tetris of cereals over the stove.
I miss the time before it all went rolling down
And up, and to pot, and bloomed a herpetic rose,
And they closed Borders the book store, and tumors grew,
And my hands can’t hold this many things, as it turns out,
Ladyfingers in custard all thumbs, and things went slip.
And I miss having half my skull empty, in which to read,
And I miss walking to the drugstore with snow and dusk.
And I hope we can speak for a sec of how sad we are.
I miss having nothing but quarters, a book and a cold,
The time after I was young and before I was old.