One by one the old people
of our neighborhood
become suspended in the sky
as their houses and apartments
fade from existence
or remain just barely visible,
mere ghosts of their former structures
that slow my progress
as much as a thick cobweb—
more a feeling that diverts my attention
than real resistance.
And the old people
go about their lives in plain view
to all pedestrians
who take the time to look up.
See. See. There is Mrs. Jones
baking her light fluffy lemon zest cupcakes
in her third floor walk-up on Washington Boulevard.
And Mr. Thompson assembles
a new model airplane, another B-17,
to add to the tight formation suspended
from his studio’s ceiling.
Where the buildings fade,
the foundations fade as well
and the earth appears
with a thick coat of wildflowers,
but blurred a little by the memory of the structure
that is ninety-five percent into the next world.