Palisades Park, New Jersey

I heard our former New Jersey home
was demolished to make room
for a two-family.
The driveway and garage are gone.
I wonder if the new owners
kept those old license plates
that lined the garage walls?
The Cavallo’s are the only hold-outs 
on the block, and choose not to sell
their colonial,  now dwarfed
by three-story buildings.
Many nights, in dreams, my spirit crosses 
the country and hovers over our old address 
longing to see where my family was happy.
I see my kids asleep in their beds,
the next-door neighbors around 
our dining room table, 
my husband  dealing out the cards
to play Spades. It’s Vivian and me
against the guys.
We often laugh when our husbands
accuse us of cheating.
Jerry prefers a dry martini, 
and we sometimes have wine.
Like wearing soft, flannel pj’s,
I’m comfy in our married life.
We are naive about our future.
I can’t visualize the big move yet,
even when Madam Florence tells me,
“I see you residing in a ranch house.”

the little boy turns the knob
and lets himself in.
He climbs the staircase
surprising his neighbor.

She invites him to walk
to the market with her.
He tells her, “We throw 
pennies under the porch
cuz’ the elves live there.”

Each day at three,
he’s her honored guest
as they feast on Rocky Road
and chocolate chips.
He’s quick to show her
the margarine bowl he sprayed
with gold paint and macaroni.

When things get dull
at his house, 
he saunters over there
where he’s treated as a prince. 
.
Suddenly he’s transplanted
across the country.
On his first day of kindergarten
he tearfully asks,
“When are we going home?”

At the house next door
the knob won’t turn.

From my second floor kitchen,
I would sit on a high stool,
looking out our wide window
watching people pass by
on their way
to the post office next door,
the butcher shop, 
or Muller’s Drug Store 
on the corner.
There was the smell of diesel
from the buses,
sounds of honking horns, 
the slam of the post office
truck’s door, 
and a constant parade of cars.

When it snowed late in the night,
traffic slowed to just a few cars.
The island that separated 
north and south bound traffic
had tall, silver lampposts 
shining their light on the slant 
of the lusty falling flakes.
Then, I could see this was how
it should be, sacred and holy;
the busy boulevard turning
into another world, white as clouds,
hiding grime below its blanket of snow.