I go back to walk on privileged streets to find the poem that I lost.

I see pillars here and ivy there and potholes in between.
There are stacks of places, people spaces. I think I’d go crazy up there.
There are towers and gables and shingles at odd angles all doll-houses blown up to life-size.

And the people like husks float around in the dusk with all their life sucked out.
They go to little places and work in little spaces.
And think no larger than the spots they're smashed into.

Their hair grows thin and then goes gray and they pray that it will never end.