Sunday, September 29, 2013

The Last Ghost

Before he goes, he turns

around, surveying things

one final time, making

sure that his memories

will all be found neatly

arranged by the new boy.

A model Corsair and a Zero

square-off on a doily

beneath a ceramic lamp

his mother painted. While,

overhead, an Enterprise,

his father’s handiwork,

slowly revolves in the dark

bedroom. Sightless eyes,

belonging to the stuffed

frogs he will leaving,

look up in silence at

the orbiting starship,

lost in whatever thoughts

their cotton brains contain,

unaware of what they are

to him: his family.


He taps his rocker and

it rocks, predictably,

keeping perfect time.

Part metronome, part throne,

it coordinates the headlights

careening along the wall

into his mirror. Those

lightning flashes at night

will not be missed. He’s glad

that dresser isn’t coming,

really. He has outgrown

the child inside. He flips

one of the handles up,

then flicks it down again,

to hear how it collides

against a plate of brass,

letting go of the past.

The noise it makes is nice.

So he lifts it up again,

so he can hear it crash

again, a kamikaze,

ending something grand.

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