Larkfield St and 200
I miss my old town whose crooked homes
Enclosed me and took me in. That roundabout’s
Moss-roped walls guided me down haywire
Sidewalks covered in washed-up chalk
It’s rhythm of nostalgia bore familiarity in
My veins, drumming and silently roaring
Like the garage band, two doors down the street
Every Saturday evening; Metalheads with dreams
Of making it big. The walls weren’t soundproof so
They would roar out those melodies mixed with
Foreign conversations. I couldn’t understand those words,
But heard the same hopes and dreams in a world of accents.
It almost made it seem like the neighborhood children
Were a patchwork quilt. So different but glued together
With Elmer’s Craft Glue. I joined them and laughed
Among forget-me-nots. That memory engraved, lingering
In my mind like those second-hand tobacco trails from
The gas station around the maple-strung corner
Those memories, they still linger. Those moss-roped walls
Guide me down a bygone past — strumming and murmuring.
By Rena Su
Rena Su is a 16-year-old writer and poet based in British Columbia, Canada. She thanks you for stumbling across the vast expanses of the internet and landing on her piece.