Poem 17

I've fiddled with this one for a while, since at least spring of '03. It's sort of a sequel to "Haunted" but not originally meant to be one. It was strange to be moving my grandfather out of the house, almost like a final indignity to the guy. He's doing fine in his newer place in a mobile park in West Richland.
This one fits in with my weird ghost motif that I do. I don't believe in ghosts, but I like the concept and their usefulness in writing.

Moving into the Double-Wide

With the last of the clocks packed,
time at my grandfather’s house
is like a metal hourglass
full of bolts and sockets,
dented and dashed,
greasy to touch,
sifted over the bent edges of tools
or the cover of a John Deere manual.

We have come here,
this basement lit by humming tubes,
to rummage,
to scrounge up generations-old tools,
work shirts with faded stains,
and fishing poles his hands gripped
even as they began to shake.

They shake now as Grandpa
looks over the grease and metal
of a tool I can’t name
or imagine a purpose for.
He explains it well to my uncle,
and I would quote him
if I remembered
or could find the punctuation
for a voice like obsolete machines.

We don’t talk much here;
opinion drowns before it forms
in the sound of my father rattling through
old spark plugs and pipe fittings
in the drawer next to me.
My brother and I know how to box conflict,
to seal it up with brown tape.

My head buzzing like a flourescent,
I imagine for the second time
that I am a ghost here in this house
or that the house is a ghost
roaming caves and hallways
somewhere in the electric tomb
of our brains.

But the only ghosts small enough
to fit here among the junk,
are the cat ghosts.

For years
The strays bred in the bushes
spawning years of cats
mewling by the door at seven.
Grandpa set plates of cat food
and bacon scraps
for them each morning.
He took over the job,
cussing at their damn racket,
when Grandma died.

Now they stalk about
after ectoplasmic mice.
or try to nibble the dry food
that lies scattered on the concrete floor.
Their jaws pass through the bits
but keep nibbling.
They rub against our legs,
not crumpling our pants.
We might hear the soft pad
of their feet
if the old lights didn’t buzz
and we weren’t in such a hurry.

We turn off the light
when the boxes are in the truck.