A Note Of Explanation

Along the oak clad drive are roses
tended sometimes by great uncle Arthur.
Abandoned croquet wickets still stand
Amidst grown up lawn grasses.
Seldom sat in wooden chairs receive rain.

I want to leave here in a slow soft rain;
To not really understand the destination
But to be washed from here in never ending mist.

To stand in the damp and wave farewell;
To not know names written on my ticket;

To wash up among none who know me;
To have no idea how I was in fifth grade.