The bed of earth and gravel
resembles a giant grave
surrounded by two asphalt driveways
and the parking lot at back,
slopes upward away from the
busy street and concrete sidewalk.
It is long and narrow.
I almost expect to see a headstone.
There is nothing buried here;
the long clawed arm removed all
as a primitive dentist extracts a tooth.
The brick house, lately The Java House,
seems reluctant to
give up seventy years of situation,
but sits like a ghostly grandmother
haunting the plot at night.
So much is gone: so many vacant lots,
so much impermanence remains.
The past is lost has gone is dead.
The only regret seems to be held
in the ghosts of scattered bricks.