At the top of the building
across the street
from my mother’s house
sits one of my father’s offices.
They kept relocating him
across the city.

He’s not there anymore
(at this hour
he never was);
he retired years ago
but it’s strange to think
even years after separation
my father had a place
where he could
look in on my mother
ensuring she was all right.

Eventually
that would become my mother’s role
in the relationship
– even years after separation.

Now, he doesn’t work anymore
and she doesn’t watch him anymore
and I don’t think there’s even an office
for my father’s old job anymore.
Everything changes
but the buildings remain
reminding those old enough
to remember.