The long house on 80th is for sale.
For a second,
I think the sign must be misplaced.
They’ve got the wrong yard,
the wrong koi fish pond and decay-heavy swing set.
The wrong unused front door, over used
air conditioning. This house, the iron lawn dog,
the way my grandma’s ghost still sits in the doorways,
it can’t be for sale.
Grandpa wakes us up at 7 o’clock with a loud knock
on our moisture ridden door. I sit next to him
on the way to the Gulf. He likes to talk
and doesn’t care much for transition -
a plane with no front windshield moves to
his apple stock moves to local murders.
I want to say - “Grandpa, I’m sorry,
I didn’t know you were selling the house.”
but he’s already back to the 26 year old flying blind.
I am flying blind here, Grandpa. Swinging myself sideways
to try and understand when he says
he loves his youngest son. That his heart’s okay,
but his lungs aren’t so good. Triple bypass
with a side effect of his sternum hurting
when it rains.
In Florida, it is always raining.
The house doesn’t smell like cigarettes anymore.
The boys smoke outside now,
wash their clothes.
Keep the mama smell
away from the furniture.
Sixth son, youngest son, he looks like a child now.
Skinny knees, a limp towards the right,
always hiding in his room.
These days, he gives Grandpa conversation.
Stock market, battery powered conversation.
Lying shirtless on his father’s bed, I wonder
if he feels like a boy. If he can forget what he did
to his mother.
If they haven’t forgotten,
they’ve agreed to pretend.
