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.