Snapshot Ghosts

Every night a long dark passage

into lightless journeys seeks but

everywhere my life has traveled.

Country road…

Where the kitchen sink provided my first bath,

the clicking clocks in every room my introduction to impatient time.

the oak table as fortress for my crawling wooden spoon defense,

later the tree to tree clothesline for blanket tents of make-believe soldier play. 

Old neighborhoods…

Of now ancient friends,

where the corner church of childhood mandatory comfort

became a genesis for later chosen adulthood discontent.

Grandpa’s world…

Of cow-manure fields,

other-world outhouse aromas,

headless chickens zig-zagged their blood dance,

while Grandma chased and with a few grabs, dinner.

Cityscape…

Where the apartment building’s black alley cat brought friendship

with rubs to the leg,

sweet nothing purrs,

and with tail pointed up,

always ready to be my guide for the night.

How venturesome…

These dark streets of hidden memories,

where unheard footsteps,

hover beneath missing faces

where nary a few snapshot ghosts

accompany one’s closure.