Same

Then, a decade ago,
I was doing these same things.

The bike was different,
a battered Raleigh road bike,
once-white, salvaged from a
basement junk heap. Its tires
blew out frequently.

The streets were the same--no,
different: fewer people, fewer lights
and less construction. Sections of sidewalk
all askew like shrapnel.

I lived a few blocks away.
A condo they called it (they still do),
though its plain walls and
shag carpet told a different story.

These timeless smells--
they still arise from everywhere, everything--
woodsmoke like late Placerville fall,
laundry detergent like the streets of Mazatlan;
the ripening spring air tastes of mulched leaves
and prepubescent lawns.

Funny how we can end up in these same places,
with so little changed--
really,
even though
that life
has gone, and
a new one
is in its place.