CASPER
THE FRIENDLY GHOST
A vet's four Vietnams harbor under sleeves.
Mission oils occupy my museum wing.
Old sofa's cat-scratched and starting
defenselessness over with a loose-weave slipcover.
It submits to cricks and tucks.
Childhood lashing lasts as folk art,
palm-prints passed down young behinds.
Paramours romp the toile-stamped
byways of kine and trellises, dogs fishing
in a barrel, elves riding snails over
the canopied bed. Once-flirty
philanderers bore the book channel.
How revealing.
I frame my surgical toes' grisaille
x-rays above the claw-foot tub.
I bury dear Mother, claim her heirloom
pots of faded greengage, fraises
des bois, des alpes, blue-black labrusca
burgeoning on hand-gilded sides.
With ladder now, I make off with
the last thing I'm entitled to, the famous brains
of my maiden aunt's Scott and Burns
on the shelf nearest the ceiling.
Mission oils occupy my museum wing.
Old sofa's cat-scratched and starting
defenselessness over with a loose-weave slipcover.
It submits to cricks and tucks.
Childhood lashing lasts as folk art,
palm-prints passed down young behinds.
Paramours romp the toile-stamped
byways of kine and trellises, dogs fishing
in a barrel, elves riding snails over
the canopied bed. Once-flirty
philanderers bore the book channel.
How revealing.
I frame my surgical toes' grisaille
x-rays above the claw-foot tub.
I bury dear Mother, claim her heirloom
pots of faded greengage, fraises
des bois, des alpes, blue-black labrusca
burgeoning on hand-gilded sides.
With ladder now, I make off with
the last thing I'm entitled to, the famous brains
of my maiden aunt's Scott and Burns
on the shelf nearest the ceiling.