At town’s end, she will see the new stoplight
there will be a lane for that.
Then, his road,
sheathed in asphalt.
Yellow shutters, faded.
Parking on narrow streets
worked better in a secondhand coupe.
She will open her minivan door,
step over concrete pavers, dandelion growth,
his mother’s decayed lawn gnomes.
Lift the brass knocker,
mean to let it fall.
Rusted hinges will stop short of gravity.
She will turn away,
knowing he no longer lives there,
or anywhere else.
Lauren Annette Boulton will graduate from Saginaw Valley State University in August with a bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing. When she is not writing, she enjoys working for the Michigan Department of Natural Resources, substitute teaching, making chocolates and candles, camping, and hanging out with her ten-month-old nephew. This is her first major publication.