Poem 24

Here's another poem from my "ghost period". I don't use the motif much any more, but I don't mind seeing it in my older stuff.
This poem is only vaguely autobiographical. Besides, I always had to pour my own cereal.

The Workday

The ghost of your father’s cologne
after he left for work
was what you had to simmer over
at 8:15.
In that bedroom, in your underpants,
you stood breathing
and taking it all in.
The light through the curtains
had begun to reveal the clues.
Possible shoe prints
like smudges in the carpet
and a closet open to an empty hanger
among a crowd of shirts-
it all put together a tidy picture:
the man on his way.
Things to do.
He would be there already
prying open the tabs of his briefcase.
What evidence?
Could Mom have rustled the sheets
on his side
and dripped aftershave in the sink,
wet the razor
before she sat down with the paper,
your cereal piled in a bowl?