The concrete was made long ago
with oyster shells
(tabby), rough underfoot
as I pass wrought iron gates
overgrown
by flowering vines
between the hidden stair cases
and gardens fragrant with
boxwood and basil.
I hear songbirds in the shade
and through open windows,
lessons practiced on real pianos
in large plastered rooms.
Cutlery clinks on heavy china.
Here and there
beside the recycling bins
you may find
barely worn shoes lined up
neatly on a retaining wall,
a porcelain lamp or a teak end table.
Once I scored
a box of picture frames with glass and wire
two weeks before my show.
There I lurk in the lane
collecting chairs
by the side of the road.