The ghost of my grandfather is in the hall,
my mother tells me.
She can smell the sticky sweet scent of his pipe,
like the incense in a Buddhist temple
purifying this space, this golden hall
where I used to sleep in small pajamas
when the spaces under the bed became too frightening,
the dull roar of the stand-up fan
drowning out the summer heat,
and through foggy eyes, if I try,
I can almost see him in the faded wallpaper.

Red going grey, with
gentle skin and pale
He looks at me,
and I want him to know me now,
to see me as a man, and
let me brag of my accomplishments
while he whittles patiently away at a slingshot
sipping coffee and nodding his head.
I want him to pump my hand after graduation, and
tell the men of the town what his tow-headed grandson
has become,
But all I have is this ghost of my past,
and it comforts me, this
midnight vision at six.