LARRY HIRSHBERG

 

The Old Neighborhood

It wasn't as if I had been down
far enough to forget where I was.
I knew the pillow that held my head
was hers, though today's dog shouted
an unfamiliar warning, and the tree outside
the open window whispered in the old tongue.

I had slept enough to dream
an elaborate scene involving a beach,
a giant rolling log, and happily,
a sea turtle that resembled a Volkswagen.
The smell of chocolate filled the air -
a candy factory had sweetened this block's
mornings for a century and a half.

The ancient breeze lowered
and the strange barking tapered down.
I opened my eyes and asked her
"Why do you suppose a turtle?"
And as we discussed the obvious connection
to the Beetle, the part of her room that held
the bed began to feel less like a road
and more like a destination.