I went to your house the other day.
It was unseasonably warm for February.
You and I would've discussed this,
sat outside perhaps, considered
the effect on springtime planting.
A train roared west into downtown,
briefly drowning out the neighbor's dogs
who snarled as if they'd tear my throat.
I showed them one finger, then went
about picking winter trash from your lawn.
After the old place sells, I imagine
I'll still come back to close my eyes
and hear the trains from this angle,
to pretend that some things never change
except the seasons.
