by Lynne Cattafi
The boozy neighbor who said it was time
to “get the hell outta Dodge” packed up his car and left,
unsentimental.
The bumper, flaked and rusted,
the muffler backfiring
in a final fuck you to the old neighborhood.
What’s left behind?
A small toy elephant lost years ago
gathers dust under the radiator.
Deep scratches in the worn floor which served as a map,
places to avoid or where to settle
on one’s journey down hallways
near rooms where children begrudgingly slept
still exist where the sander’s tools could not reach.
Pencil marks from twin growth charts
stubbornly push their way through new paint.
One’s own breath hangs in the air.
Perhaps the accumulation of a life bangs around somewhere,
trapped in the walls or under the floorboards, waiting
to surface when no one is looking.
Lynne Cattafi teaches English to middle schoolers at a private school in New Jersey. When she’s not teaching her students to love writing poetry and reading books, she enjoys drinking coffee, building Lego cities from scratch with her children, walking her beagle, and reading historical fiction and mysteries. Her poetry has appeared in Elephants Never, Marias at Sampaguitas and Vita Brevis. She can be found on Twitter at @lynnecatt.