Going Home

By Madison Hu

when the light turns red, he will go home

in the meantime,

three friends walk

arm to arm

the baby is on his father’s shoulders

and it is nothing he can’t defeat yet

later, he will only recognize digital turns

the last time the signs

were this block-red

someone else 

knew what it meant;

he replays sinking 

desperation swirling in the laundry 

spinning out the dirt accumulated from knee scrapes

he will rely on his bones instead

the face he owns melts 

softer than when he was a baby 

and the woman who fell in love 

too long ago

sometimes forgets sweet things

in the end the light will turn red 

and the couples upstairs

will housewarm every year 

to ad infinitum 

and the community garden will bloom

in the winter.

in the meantime, cracks in the brick of Apartment 4C let in light (and other particles)