Passing By Your House
by Michael Minassian
Lately, I’ve passed by your house
although you don’t live there anymore;
the new owners never say hello
even when I wave and smile,
flicking open my umbrella
as if words were collected rain
and they would recognize me
from a distance of so many years.
The town where we grew up
looks smaller, the roads narrow
and spinning out like a spider’s tears
anchoring to the top of the hill
bordering the park near my old home,
and you, you are a bird
ambushed in my memory
unpacking your wings.
Process notes: The inspiration for this poem came to me when I used Google Maps to search for the house where I grew up in a small town in New Jersey. Everything was the same, but different.
Michael Minassian is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online magazine. His chapbooks include poetry: The Arboriculturist (2010) and photography: Around the Bend (2017). For more information: https://michaelminassian.com