On Driving Through Old Niskayuna

Slowly we roll where the things supposed to happen already did.

Past the houses where these people, these people who built the town, had their children, their hobbies, lived humbly, died quietly.

This late, this dark, no one walks the streets.

So the skeletons waltz with an old man’s memory to share a private love self-conscious at its exclusion.

The past opaque, the details numerous; they huddle to warm each other and I am an outsider.

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