Every street I walk down
I come by the places
where I used to live,
and with every step
I kick up another memory.
The apartment on King street
where they shut the heat off
and I rolled found pennies
and nickels in loose leaf
just to buy a loaf of bread.
There was the house on Robie street
where you cooked me spaghetti
with tomato soup.
We made love on the living room floor.
We didn’t have a bed, a couch
or even a mattress to lay on.
I lived by the seat of my pants
in those days. I was happy. I had
a bounce in my step, and a fire
in my heart. The birds sang.
Now, I have a couch, a bed,
and a spare mattress in the basement
that sits, collecting dust. A refrigerator
full of food. But those birds,
they don’t sing.
