I have come to the house of my fondest dreams, but the shutters are boarded; the front door is locked; the mail box leans over; and where we once walked, the path is grown over with crabgrass and clover.
I kick the trash can; it screams, topples over. The yard, weeded over, blooms white fluff, and green. The elm we once swung from leans over the stream. In the twilight I cling with both hands to the swing.
Inside, perhaps, I hear the telephone ring or watch once again as the bleary-eyed mover takes down your picture. Dejected, I hover, asking over and over, “Why didn’t you love her?”