you make a left
you make a left turn, by the overpass
and I know the directions better than the back of my hand
I know the potholes, the patched cracks, the tire that sits outside the exit on the way to your grandmother's house, the bright flowers laid at the worn, wooden cross for the bike accident twelve years ago
yet you make a left turn, by the overpass
you make a left turn by the dead grass, by the willow tree, by the rubber streaks scorched into the pavement, by the cracked glass bottle that someone threw out a window
you make a left turn, by the overpass
and I know the directions better than the back of my hand
and you weren't supposed to turn but you take the left anyway, choosing the long way, the lost way, the get off this highway, towards the corner of 43rd and Bell street, towards the fields with corn that stands knee-high, the dirt roads we ran as children, where flowers grow and bees will sting
you make a left turn, by the overpass
a left turn towards memories