FATHER’S GHOST

I always thought of him
In the gas jets bubbled over in a hundred watery paint jobs,
Sealed inside the molding on our bedroom wall.
He was the speckled frosted glass
On the French door handles
That rhinestoned any light at dawn,
And eyed at me in the gothic key hole
Few thought about anymore…
In the silent part of night,
Before the alley cats hunched and screeched,
Waking me from what I felt was sleep,
I smelled his flannel workshirt,
And the woolen winter cap he always pulled around his ears…
On a summer fire escape, I dreamed him dead
A year or two, before I knew he’d taken ill…
In death he came to life
As he never did while living.
I heard him through a grey haired Black mop man
Soaping up a diamond hall
Singing Carolina songs;
Humming shadowed premonitions on the borderline of Blues and jazz –
As pleasing to my ears
In songs I never heard before.