English Teacher Billie Mears Wins Poetry Award

Old Neighborhood

The watery moon floated in pools of city street water,
floated down lanes where houses were lit up like
birthday candles in a darkened room.

I leaned against you as we walked, my hand
tucked around your elbow, my free hand
carrying the umbrella, not needed this night
since the rain had stopped.

“We lived in this neighborhood how long ago?”
I asked. “I can’t remember how long,” you said
squeezing my hand into the side of your ribs.

We returned to walk familiar lanes whenever
we wanted to remember those years, now lost in the shadows,
when our walks were the most important part of our time
together. My hand in yours, always safe.

We didn’t live in any of the big houses. We just liked
them. We liked looking at them, with their windows
of golden light, their well-manicured lawns and
winding driveways.

We lived around the corner in a small
second floor apartment. Our wealth
could not be counted in terms of
windows or gardeners.