I dreamed

The driveway is empty. The number 36 is etched into the pavement like a scar. I stand there and wait. The wind doesn’t speak, but it moves the trash bins, nudging them closer to the fence. A blue truck parks itself too long, then vanishes. A man in a red cap walks by, then another, then a third — identical, each one fading as they pass. The sun forgets to rise, then forgets it forgot. I count the knocks from the machines, but they all sound the same. 938. 73. No one leaves. No one arrives. The driveway is empty. It always has been.