A broken lock, rusted
on a chain-link fence;
I’ve been here before.
Old warped wood
of a porch well-used
chirps and creeks beneath boot;
magpies chatter with loud
lunchtime conversation (while vines
overgrow human barriers).
They say: all the people have finally gone.
Dreaming in sepia,
I want to sit alone on the broken
and bruised rocking chair
drinking earl grey tea
from a chipped coffee mug,
old jazz records spinning.
Watching dandelion roots rift
through concrete as flowers escape
their garden beds;
hearing possums scurry beneath
decaying boards as wild birds nest
in old rafters.
A broken lock, rusted
on a chain-link fence;
I’ve dreamed here before.