I walk these streets from memory
long before I knew of her,
from a time when there was
still a Tinker Street Café,
and the ghost of my childhood
clinging to every store,
if not greeted with
“Groovy” or “Far Out,
then with looks that expressed
the desire for peace on earth
and people who meant it,
though I knew when I came here
this time things were different,
a bit tainted from a history
not quite my own,
my steps following her steps
as well as my own,
ghosts of the past strolling along
passed these familiar landmarks,
if not the exact same time,
then along the same by ways,
pausing where the creek passed
under us and down
the trickling falls beyond,
near where the old rail road terminal rots
and where I always stop
to breath the air,
imagining she had done the same
during her time here.
