How we used
to quietly
tiptoe down those
rusted metal stairs
into my Zeyda's
cellar
so he wouldn't
know
we were
sneaking around...
And the winter coats
with fur collars
hanging on rack
after rack,
that somehow,
you imagine now,
smelt like
the country
he came from.
And the shirts
engraved with his
initials:
hard fought cotton,
hard won silk,
traded with America
for hands,
brains,
friends,
pride,
and so much more
we could never know.
And the rusted
lawn tools
hanging years unused
on the walls.
And his pipes
standing at attention,
their sculpted heads
upright,
still smelling
of his tobacco.
The unread
books piled
in corners,
and the eye glasses
with thicker
and thicker
lenses.
The pocket knives
that no longer opened,
and the lighters
with flint worn to nothing
that my brother
and I stole
and lost
one by one
until they were
gone.
The faded polaroids,
with black and white bodies
of ghosts.
The empty green bottles
of homemade wine...
All of these clues
now sold off,
misplaced,
stolen,
lost.
These clues
and the corners
with the decades of dust,
that once held
the mystery
of our generations.
Philadelphia - 5/3/01
