Mezzanine

I walk alone through these barren and uninteresting streets
I walk alone past the library where I spent so much time after school,
where I brought boys so we could kiss on the lazy boy in the mezzanine
I walk alone past the park where they always held the farmer’s market,
where during my health-kick I spent every pay check
I walk alone through stoners’ path where I’d go for a break,
where I’d walk until I found the water so I could skip rocks
I walk alone past the restaurant where I saw my friend’s band play,
where I couldn’t help but order two batches of nachos because they were that good

I walk alone past the woman in the scooter who rides around town everyday,
the woman who smiles and genuinely cares when she asks, “how are you?”
I walk alone up to the owner of my favorite cafe who is pregnant now,
the one who considers me a regular and knows that I’m not a vegan but I try not to drink much dairy
I walk alone past the old man in that same cafe who was always raising his voice,
the one who told me, “even my twenty-seven year old daughter would know not to say that around me,” when I said, “fuck”
I walk alone past the hair stylist who has been giving me the same haircut for six years,
the man who always asks, “how is dad doing?” because he knows he’s not doing so well

I drive past all of these places and people but it is not until I am somewhere new
That I miss the familiarity, that I miss the barren and uninteresting streets
For I used to weave in and out of these places and around these people
With friends and familiar faces, and now I walk alone.