The apartment complex at Arbor Place where I shared
a one-bedroom with my cousin bears the derelict
face of abuse. Doors and windows missing or kicked
in expose the shadows of a few squatters, their abandoned
eyes. Ruin stings my throat. What happened
to my old street where half a block away the bungalows
rooted in manicured lawns like oaks and inside one
I studied piano with a gentle man who stood behind
me and pushed my shoulders down and said breathe here
and pianissimo and rubato while I played my Raindrop Prelude?