Revenants
.
Shoo-fly pie. Turpentine. The turn
of a key in a reassembled lock.
Stratified sawdust sucked into
the vacuum, all those millennia lost.
Our breath floating off with
December inside the garage.
Tossing out seeds from a bucket
for birds. The drawer where you
sheltered a family of mice.
Numberless tennis balls, golf balls
we pilfered. Baseball bats
emerging on the lathe. Jaws
and John Wayne, groundhogs
that tore up the lawn. The attic
fan in summer, massive, spinning.
Hot smell of tar and old lumber.
The son whose name I share
you never spoke of. Werther’s
wrappers, gold and wrinkled,
corn cob pipes and Holiday tins.
Assorted screws, faint labels,
ice in milk. The room you never
used. Old tools, new cabinets.
Jiminy Cricket and Jesus Christ.
Your denim chore coat hanging
in my closet. Japanese maples,
the war, Hogan’s Heroes. The grave
you hoped you’d never have to choose.
Your name and years in stone
between the others. Never you.
