how it burned down.
The ashes and ovens -
the old dining room -
preparing a new table
for that feast of coals.
All I remember now,
as the smoke still curdles
on the banks of this river,
is how firm my feet felt
ascending the icy stairs.
How the morning shine
was as obnoxious
as the whine from Canadian mills.
The hallway runner leading,
by the awkward tilt
of old pizzerias,
to the refrigerator
that scarcely knew food.
The haze of my romantic era
is gone, only alive, an ember,
in an equally flammable
house of memory.
Dizzy on the sidewalk,
delegating the street lamp
to be my legs firmly planted,
I am swaying, so sorrowful,
through the veils of those
strange days, finally removed.
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