WEBVTT

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That wasn't autobiographical,
I hasten to add,

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but the next two are.

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This is about my father.

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"Ghost of a Garden."

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Sometimes I discover I have gone
down stairs, crossed the grass

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and found myself in here.

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The tool shed caught
in a lash of brambles,

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bind weed, and tall ivied
trees like pipe cleaners.

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It looks out vacantly
on a garden run to seed.

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The lost tennis court, grown
over benches, a sunken barbecue

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snagged with blown roses.

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The courtyard walls
are full of holes.

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The swallows try to sew in and
out of them like open doors.

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In the corner of the shed my
father is weeping and I cannot

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help him because he is dead.

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