orangeburg

Revisiting Orangeburg

Revisiting Orangeburg

Deaf Person Area. It used to say Deaf Child Area. I'd ride my bike and ride real quick cause I didn't want the kidnappers to get me-- the man with fangs in the stationwagon that'd freak us out once a year. This was the most American street in the area. Betsy Ross Drive. In between mist and rain and small waving flags, I spotted some brown birds and a bunny hiding underneath a parked car. A tree was just cut, by landscapers I bet, and showed itself raw. Did the deaf boy become a man? Is he still in the same house? I think him invisible, outside with the blossoms, hopping from slide to slide tying blue ribbons around all the trees. When I went to the old house, I found a daughter who wouldn't let me in. The color had changed, the garage someone's room, new numbers echo the old on the mailbox. The trees are so lush, the birds wouldn't sing back to me, or not with certainty. I'm *that* guy who freaks out the neighbors, who wants more than nostalgia can give. The present, in its dynasty, creaks gently and sings itself some other song familiar to get through the day.

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