Bunk

The garage has been torn down. In its place,
a basketball hoop, net frayed, pole
aslant. This rotting house holds my former home.
Two stories, tilted chimney, porch banisters wrecked,
the Sunset View Drive address is no longer privileged.
The rotting garbage burns bright. Memories
are badly lit but I see my father walking out, see the pitched pots
and pans that began rusting out years ago.
I step across the buckled floors, remembering our dog
hit by a Mustang, seeing the chair
we propped him up in, giving him pause before he leapt
for the rest of his addled life. He never forgot the pain.

The last family left some of their possessions: Vibe magazines,
ruined headphones, an alizarin-crimson jump rope.
No matter—as with nature I too abhor a vacuum.
The sun room, my bedroom in high school, is heavy black:
the space is boarded up, and French windows that once
allowed me easy exit and access as my divorced mother was upstairs
in her miserable master bedroom, are gone. I tear down
the cardboard and can see clearly the scratches
from my younger brother’s nails as he used this room
to gain entrance—he always forgot his keys. Heroin
and paranoia make for faulty memories.

When we buried him I went to work that night;
uninvented strangers were better company
than his friends or my dragging family.
His site sits on a hill in downtown Akron. I clearly see
the plants of Harvey Firestone’s, places of labor strikes;
one mile over, the highway that sliced downtown in two, killing
off that which remained from the ‘68 riots. I go there
in the winter, like Lewis leading Clark to Oregon’s
final frontier. The steps are treacherous. Washington’s niece,
Mary King, is buried next door. History always lies.
I once thought that Akron would be my home forever.
Here in Hoboken, the aureoline sun blinds me. No one
calls. There is something growing inside me.

Back on Sunset View I go down into the basement.
I light a match. Ah, the room where I practiced
dribbling. Read Melville. Created Soul Train moves.
Listened to Black Sabbath and smoked
weed. I was seduced here by Cheryl, an older family
friend, whose skin smelled like gasoline. This is the place
where now I will bring my son
and chain him to the wall, tossing him cookies
whenever I god damn feel like it. It’s good to have
a home. Here, I will stare forever into his plastered eyes,
waiting for the next perfect hand to be dealt.