My Uncle
lived
in a working class neighborhood
His home
was so close
to the tracks
that it would stir the drink in your hand
when the locomotives
would thunder by
You could see
the factory
he worked in
from his backyard
Each shift change
announced
throughout the neighborhood
by a high-pitched buzzer
I used to leave his house
late at night
long after his neighbors had gone to sleep
I would walk
silently
under the canopy
of oak trees
I would walk past your house
and admire
the tranquil
stone Buddha
sitting in your front lawn
Then,
the floods came
The factory
pumped toxins
into the neighborhood
behind them
rather than
devise a suitable plan
when the first flood hit
five years earlier
My Uncle’s house
is no longer standing
No more Leonard Cohen albums
or boxing matches
no more conspiracy theories
or Bukowski novels
just green grass
where a house
used to stand
Now,
when I drive by your home
the Buddha is gone
and so are you
Your windows
are now covered
in fading
yellow newspaper
Birds sing
from the pines
behind your house
their song
full and sad
like the blues
