Move back.
The halls will be yellow at the high school
and the front office won’t have ever changed.
The sixth-graders who paddled down the Little Miami
will have remained the same.

The hammock will sit stagnant,
waiting for that push, that shake and bake, that slap and tickle.
A black lab rising up from the grave, smelly as all hell,
will be there to greet you.

Ride a red-spray painted bike down
deserted roads, the same mountain dew bottle trash,
age-less hollerin’ neighbors;
home-run derby crew.

Move back.
Watch lonesome blues whittled away,
and whispering softly,
“it’s not you, it’s not you, it’s not you.”