We sought a place belonging to the past–
a place the summer sun had burned onto my mind
like an overexposed photograph,
a place where little cedar boxes marked
“Souvenir of the Ozarks”
had waited on glass shelves for the tourists
while Daddy Raymond slept off his whiskey,
where Grandma had served up cherry pie or apple butter
while teaching us the art of getting by.

Each of us watched for something different–
the tower of giant letters from top to bottom–C–O–U–R–T;
the fountain, which glowed magically in
colored lights on summer nights;
I looked for that ubiquitous red and yellow building stone.
These images were clear, yet disconnected,
as if less remembered than dreamed in half-sleep.
Sometimes, even now, a smell will enter my nostrils,
and I am there.

Unsure which road to take,
we followed nearly-forgotten instincts
and eroded landmarks.
We passed a field like any other,
except that goats had once grazed there.
“That’s the place–across the road! I’m sure.”
Not a stone of it remained.
There now were rows of mobile homes, awaiting buyers,
where blackberries had grown.
A native confirmed:
“Yup, tax man took it. Knocked it down years ago.”

Sad but satisfied, we left it to its inhabitants–
those long-dead goats.