It's the same place on a map But most things have turned over. Buildings repurposed, money exchanged Between floating hands. I thumb through, looking for something flammable But I can't rely on getting handed a book of matches every time. I wish it were direct where things can go But only pictures, always pictures. Covered in dust that I ate from a bag at a place we bought gas. Hobbling into childhood again. He'll thank me for my blessing, But I barely keep in touch. It's the same place on a map But most things have turned over.