Crossroads Again

There’s a road we
walk down, seems
every day, as constant
as milk being delivered
to the milk box each
morning in the suburbs
where — well it doesn’t
matter, it was childhood
and we were caterpillars
shedding skins as often
as the sun would set
on a snow-covered street.

Ages ago we were,
different.

I can’t go back to
the stalactites
hop-scotching through
all that you
walked through.

It took me years to
learn there’s a difference
between the past
and the next step down
a road, wind and rain
whistling and dancing
into a tomorrow you
never acknowledge.

A separation of goodbyes,
well met at an intersection,
don’t drag me back once
I’ve started another journey.

I can’t.