There may have been flowers–impatiens
or roses–flowers with welcoming colors.
I don’t remember. Memory is painted
grey because color didn’t stop
my appraisal of their foreclosure.
I entered the drive and listened
as gravel crunched under my tires, shifted,
ground together. My car was a glacier
pressing against granite that resists.

I don’t remember a bike at a tree,
if birds chirped as squirrels squabbled.
I remember the snow shovel leaned
against clapboards, hibernated
while summer heat slithered around the house
and burrowed into its weathered wood–
waited for purpose, for work.
I don’t remember the shape of the house.
I don’t remember his face.

I remember initial silence, then deep barks
announced my arrival. I remember the dog
frantically digging at the door, his growl
synchronized with angry voices,
the loudest a man’s defiant bass,
furious, in tune with the dog’s pitch.
I remember my guilt, my employment.
I remember the rifle pointed at me,
the black hole filled with resentment
and the voice demanding I leave.