The neighborhood will be an old body
whose cells have turned over.
Long dormant ghosts will animate
like leaves beneath a passing car.
No one will collect fiberglass marbles
or copper foil along the railroad tracks.
There may be a leaflet or love letter
pinned against a fence by the wind.
My name will be erased from the walk
by years of soles and bicycle tires.
The sky will be at its usual height,
and a broken moon will show by day.
There will be no headstones,
only ashes, houses full of strangers,
and the descendant of a cardinal
perched on the front gate.
