i used to live here

i go to the front door & turn time
like a stove dial. back to when i lost
the keys & left the apartment open
for weeks. the bears took advantage.
sat at the too-big kitchen table. 
watched tv & enjoyed extravagant baths. 
i could not figure out how or where
to go. the city had bugs. the mountains
had bugs. i drove my car & tried
to call you. only birds were on the phone.
i am a nostalgia eater. i love to go 
to places i walked at night. the street lights
like flowers on the moon. i bring new lovers
as if we could both get sucked back
to our old selves. become less lonely. lick our fingers
clean of mayonnaise. when i lived
on broadway (no not that broadway) 
once a man came & knocked on my door.
he said, "i used to live here." i took him inside.
i showed him the hole in the ceiling. i showed
him the back porch where the raccoons came
& still asked for him. i believe we are
more like mushrooms than anything else.
leaving spores of ourselves wherever we go.
if watered & spoken to right, i think
a little blind self would emerge in that place.
that was before i had glasses. everyone was
the texture of marmalade. the sun, 
a bright blur. the man did not leave for days.
begged me to tell him it was 2010 again. 
i asked him, "what did you leave there?"
he explained that his dog had run away
the next year. he had chased them for weeks
along the old railroad tracks. he whispered,
"they became gods." i believe him. i think
he just needed to confess. he left then. 
i do not confess as much as i should. we pass
my old front door. inside are thousands of us.
you calling me in the middle of the night.
me, letting it ring. all the windows turned to birds.