I AM IN THIS OLD HOUSE

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I am in this old house
That’s me
still a boy
dreamy as a Gainsborough
framed in the window
beneath the curvy slope of a sad-eyed eave
watching the seasons twirl by
like a Feiffer ballerina
celebrating the spectacular ordinary
The house
which was once imperious
especially when it cackled at squalls
or dismissed the night
like it was a silly schoolgirl
is bony and hollow-cheeked now
fragile as a scrapbook rose
and haunted by ghosts
which are all the regrets that
simply refuse to die
But I will never age
I will remain a
tender-hearted callant
beyond the life sentence of the grave
Me:
The mad inventor of fancies
Who can still hear
The mischief of cartoons
The dinner table prattles
The tumble of a dryer
The tentative ascent of piano scales
And the insistence of vinyl static
Until the needle drops and finds
Frank Sinatra
singing
The Nearness Of You
which coaxes my mom
in her Cinderella apron
and pink latex gloves
to turn away from her soapy pot sink
and nuzzle her nose into the fidelity of my dad’s soft shoulder
as they begin to dance
a bedroom slipper waltz
On the starlit ammonia-scented skin of the linoleum floor.

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