But I try. So much is now happening. A vaccine for HIV.

Artificial intelligence. Reusable rockets. A new dwarf planet.

Gone is the old century, a time when I could have been

a polar explorer. A child detective wandering the fading streets

of another age, another life. Gone are the times when I felt

rooted to old places, names buried six feet under in memory.

Now I am a visitor in my adopted skin, in an adopted city,

my vision carrying the unbearable weight of melancholy.

The sound of a distant train pulls me away from the Here

and Now. The flowerbeds. The bees. Longing a slight breeze,

a destination calling out to me, but the ticket office is closed.

The train’s tracks pulled up decades ago. Still, I follow the sound

of the train to where the old rail lines once lead—out of town.

To an abandoned highway overgrown with yellow straw, and

tumbleweeds. The Motel Elsewhere sitting on the edge of

a parking lot full of abandoned cars. Its neon sign blinking

No Vacancy. The Tasty Freeze across the street foreclosed,

its windows boarded up. The café next door full of wraiths,

ghosts drinking steaming cups of departure. I know what

you are thinking. This is not a real place. That this is a mere

feeling, a mood without the substance of the real, the true,

but the architecture of the old century is there to be found,

in ruins, yes, but there, even if the journey is made alone.