Once the dust settled,
The new house was undeniably
Shabby.
Chipped green paint,
Rickety wooden porch,
No other houses in sight.
In a small town
Outside Toronto,
Shelves are painted off-white
In an attempt to hide
Years of wear.
The floors are warped
From imprecise construction.
I sat down on my bed
In the old house,
In the old town
Where friends were always
Outside my window.
Grass and trees,

Not mud and snow.

I put on my mittens,
Wet from moving boxes
Through the slush,
And sit on the worn leather seat
Of our old Trailblazer.
We went into town for dinner that night,
Hoping to meet some people,
Neighbors; future friends.

Arriving for a late meal,
It gradually became
Night.
No people;
No conversations.
We were listening
For extinct pigeons,
Some indication of civilization.
There were only shadows of heads
Like pumpkins on Halloween,
A faint image in the distance,
Unapproachable.
The sleepy town was cold,
No sun
Or welcoming faces,
I missed home.