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More poems by the author Empty
House Three stories high and six families short, The
empty house at the bottom of the street fades into its final century, while the big yellow machinery watches nearby. For
those who knew its dark walls, it is still
a living house. The
sharp bang of radiators, the whistle of
winter winds, the squeak of stairs under
scruffy shoes, the sighs of a thousand long
sad looks out the window; They will not be carried away with splintered wood and crumbled stone. For
those who care, there is another house, up the street
and around the corner, with plywood nailed
across the windows and doors, as if blindfolded for the execution. Reunion It used to snow
when we were kids, all day, waist deep,
pure white. It would start with a few flakes here and there
and grow into a windy swirl. When I saw you for the first time in forty years, I remembered the snow, You
waiting at the top of the hill, my eyes
fixed on yours as I pulled the sled behind
me. Grandfather My mother crumbled under
the weight of his grumbling words, But
I remember sharing his silence
when Mozart played. Townsfolk were annoyed
at his careless wanderings on private roads, But I remember discovering new places
on a Sunday drive. I remember his violin,
his musical hands, and dancing together to Peter And The
Wolf in his enormous living room, Hot
chocolate on Saturday mornings at Woodburn’s Restaurant, and riding around all day
making up silly songs. Children — when
I lead you astray on country roads, Grandfather is to blame. When I hide in my room with Beethoven,
Grandfather is to blame. When we dance together to Peter And The Wolf in the living room,
Grandfather dances with us.
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