no good comes from seeing that house again

What makes me sick is the remembering. But still sometimes at night, when I'm riding home from the VFW, I turn seaward down the old street instead of crossing the tracks. It's silent mostly. I pedal slow and take a look at the homes. Newer trim and fences, doors have been repainted, trees have been managed and driveway basketball hoops dismounted. I get closer to 354 and tap the brakes. I roll slowly by and make sure i still recognize our old home, to be sure that it was the same childhood home that enveloped my dreams. Then I ride along, distant and hazy, those silly dreams far flung into the galaxy.

But tonight I stopped coasting by, and stopped in front of the house. I planted my feet on the ground. I took a long hard stare.

This life is a parlour trick.