In Rooms of The Past
An achy spine was the boy’s price to pay for
a good night’s dreaming on grandma’s bed, waking
to the sounds of the train whistle, the morning
sunlight peeking around the old yellowed
shades. Late Fall and the acorn wind searching
around the sash gaps, the trees already
bare and the scrawny branches whipping
against the cold glass panes. All of these things
I remember now: the stench of litter and what I
later learned to be Pine-sol mixed with percolated
coffee, hairspray, and cigarettes. Late night:
the old cat curled below the bookcase with hell’s-
red eyes, eager for a battle should I rattle her
world. The Glenwood stove—the jack-o'-lantern
flame—and how I loved ruffling that Siamese
cat, flipping a finger close to the nose, chasing her
below the bed skirt and pricking her whiskers
with a hickory stick. The same stick grandma used
on me. All of these things I remember now:
the uncle, crushing a cockroach with a flat heel
of his shoe and the cigarette sliding down against
his lower lip as the giant bug popped, leaving
a prune-like smear on the hard plank floor. My
grandma cleaning in a sleeveless smock, killing
a wasp with a wadded Kleenex, the coal-black
soot embedded below her nails. And Mom's lessons
on Ladybug Luck, cupping her hands and counting
the small spots of happiness—one for each year—
speaking soft and slow as the morning. All of these
things I remember now: placing a nickel on the rail
tracks, my father taking my hand, and the great train
thundering past, honking its horn, the big wheels
leaving a childhood disk of thin-nickeled moon.
Keith Gorman is a southern-born poet and retired factory worker who lives with his two cats, Iggy and Ozzy, near the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park in Eastern Tennessee. In his free time, he enjoys hiking the slopes and feeding backyard squirrels. His poetry has been published in various journals, including Verse-Virtual, I-70 Review, Chiron Review, 3rd Wednesday Magazine, and Impspired Magazine.
This poem is astounding. Thank you!
ReplyDeleteA beautifully detailed vision of a child's waist-high view in Fall. I read this back in October, and I'd have to say that the second reading is even sweeter!
ReplyDeleteApril Ridge