down the street

Down the street
I can smell
your body;
when the wind blows
in a breeze
or a hurricane

Your shutters are closed,
most of the time;
sometimes I think
I see a blue eye
or a marble
peek out
from behind
moldy curtains

Pressing my ear
to the door,
on my daily walk,
I hear a phone ring
when I dial random numbers;
I wonder at the correlation

I leave you a cake
on your doorstep
every birthday;
both yours and mine,
with the wish
you'd come alive again

It disappears eventually,
whether eaten or trashed
I never know,
the raccoons seem to love me

I retreat in my grief,
alone
down the street,
waiting for a new neighbor
to distract me,
in our dead end