The House I Grew Up In Is Now a Dental Office

I drove past last summer.

The door is the same color—that bruised blue

my mother hated but my father chose.

There's a sign now, and a parking lot

where the maple was.

I assume they keep it clean.

I didn't stop.

I don't know what I would have said:

Hello, I learned to walk on your floors.

I threw up in your bathroom the night before college.

I kissed someone for the first time in your hallway.

I drove past and kept driving

and the radio didn't notice at all.