Butter Over Too Much Bread

Walking well-known streets,
but every door is closed;
no more front porch knitting circles and
friendly "oy!"s;
just furtive, hard-eyed stares
and a cold wind that
claws its way around the edges of my coat
as it whips at stray wisps of hair
where it used to gently tease.
Is it perception
that changes things until
memories overlay reality so jarringly?
Hindsight is no clearer
for being farther away,
only colored a different shade
(now, less rose than gray).
Is this an inner global warming?
Even at high emotional tide,
the water marks still show
where years ago, the waves used to pound
with resounding force;
no more mellow, only lower,
as I slowly sink
(and to think, I once believed
there was nowhere to go but up).