92 OxfordPoets 2010

Sometimes I see my ghost bringing cut sunflowers to his wife and it seems so simple. Then, sometimes, it is dark he’s just in from work and Griswold says they ain’t going to raise his pay.

And even back then the power went out, long nights when they had no kerosene.

And my ghost tries to sell me on simpler times: the grass soft, endless –

lampless nights, pools of crickets singing.

The day he went to war was bright, white and clean; an advertisement for fresh laundry, lady things, or whatever.

we watched him from joe’s garage, our music clanging; hub caps and tin cans thrown against cement.

we watched his mother watch the car that took him, saw her wave at nothing, then, we took it from the top: one, two, a – one two three four