Locking Up Father’s House

He felt the failure of my tongue
and smiled, “I was not here when you came
and I shall not be here when you are gone.”
—Edward Arlington Robinson

Dust swarms in the sickroom

sun shafts, like bacteria

under a microscope. And suffering,

like the dust piled up over

many years, can’t be swept clear.

It’s in the air I breathe, the

rooms stink of cigarettes. With

each step floorboards cry.

I threw out the racing forms,

self-help books, crumpled

the beer cans into a bin, and locked

the front door. Down flagstones,

staggered to the gate., Lleaves

skitter like tickets after a horserace.

Windows stare through dusk—

Unhinged, the gate reels like a drunk.

About the chimney, strands of

white-haired mist twist. Ivy withers from

the siding, struggles to cling… On the

trellis, roses stick like fingerprints.