Orchard Lane? the bmv lady asks,
glasses riding low on the bridge of her nose.
the man at the station next to me
startles in nasty shock,
draws back like she’s dealt
an unforgivable blow.
no, he says, that’s not right.
that’s not my home anymore.
much later,
I am thinking about Orchard Lane,
and how you can try
to leave some places behind
but the world is steeped
in unforgetting.
