
The house on the corner
the green one that I grew up in
where my father planted the rose garden
that ran the length of the corner lot
parallel with the sidewalk
where we would coast down
with our feet off the pedals
gravity doing its work
ducking—our chins between the bars
when we passed the wild rose
that grew taller than the others
its shoots arced over the fence
covered with thorns and blooms
in red with yellow centers
we raced to beat the water
that poured from the hose
and collected in pools
upon the cracked soil
at the base of each plant
before sinking into the earth
that house on the corner
with the apple tree out back
the one we would climb
the last from the orchard
there before the streets
cut the land into squares
was set alight during the night
by arsonists they said
the first of many to burn.
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