Bright Fall Dream

It is a bright fall Saturday morning
In a roomy house I’ve never lived in.
I am changing the many beds,
Clearing up the wide white kitchen—
The homely countertops are cluttered,
The refrigerator is grubby,
From filmy windows above the sink
I see the garden has been neglected,
But not for too long.
Beyond the layers of garden and rows of brick houses
This may be Baltimore or Southeast DC,
Where newer cityscape interrupts settled,
Residential streets in odd jigsaw puzzle transitions
And sloping riverfront or harbor opens onto
Sky and cloud juggernauts.
And, the air conveys the closeness of big water.

In the kitchen that is mine for now
Dead and dying flowers and veggies must be cleared up
And returned to the garden.
If there’s no compost heap I’ll start one — but
Where is everyone, anyway, I wonder.
Should we start a shopping list? Are we hungry?
Will we be hungry soon? My son,
In the shadowy hall, explores the creaky landings —
His hair is wisps, his face is occupied, he wears his plaid corduroys
And the red turtleneck; he burrows in heaping pots
And pans in the cupboard in the pantry — or finds another way
To evaporate from view. He hasn’t been to Baghdad.
He hasn’t eloped. He hasn’t had the two
Psychotic breaks. And recovered.

My fingers find woody stalks and wilting leaves in the sink.
I stack plates, I search for detergent; maybe there are
Footsteps upstairs or across the hall.

I open a door onto a walkway to a gate
Between this house and a long, narrow alley
That gleams, after rain.
My father is in his tan raincoat and brown felt hat.
He is walking toward me, along the paving stones
From the gate to the door. He is grinning
The grin mixed with bad back pain.
He has not been diagnosed with colon cancer.
He has not had cataract surgery.
His dark eyes are bright as raccoon eyes.
He has not died.

My son is too small, on the steps below me.
Are his fists in his pockets or are they
Behind his back and if so, what is he holding,
How did he magic himself out of doors … ?
He looks bashfully down as his grandfather brushes past him.
I think I should say your grandfather doesn’t pick you up
Only because he has a bad back,
It’s a World War II thing.
Instead, I lift my son to his grandfather
And we stop, in the doorway.

The two faces lean to each other,
very near to my face.
They press nose to nose, mouth to mouth,
Chin to chin: the eyes close,
Are the two grins identical?

My arms are around them and I call over my shoulder for L.,
Who is not yet my partner, who is somewhere within
Earshot and would grab her camera, in a heartbeat, to capture this.
It is a picture we would frame and set on the mantel
Beside a row of speckled, near-perfect apples
And tiny, bright tomatoes from the garden —
If we were settled here, if this was our house,
In Baltimore.