528 + Infinity

Here's an old house.
If you turn right from D'Arcy Avenue,
528 is smaller than memory.
Bricks belong to strangers now
and the dogwood a spindly shiver,
bare brittle as my secrets buried
beneath concrete, my foundation
where 528 sets gray in brown.
If you dig deep you might find
the Indian penny I hid once
upon a shiny day.

Change greens with age.
My initials are eroded in a web
of cracked patio. Somewhere
in winter wind you'll hear whispers.
Grind of roller skates, flap of sheets,
a careless singsong of girls
disappearing through a screen door.