The heads of my ancestors
visited me in dreams,
delivered packages of frankincense.
Days aren't that bountiful anymore.
Flies have invaded the home,
claiming the pasta, bread, brocolli as their own.
Fucking flies.
The dogs have found new owners.
I am only a haggard man, with a whittle
shouting curses from the porch.
I used to carve soap,
but the tsunami turned it all to foam.
All men have dusty guitars waiting to be played,
dusty lungs straining to be filled,
faded jeans, tattered windsocks all drying on a line.
This house and all its facets will outlive me.
I'll pass on from the floor looking up
garlic butter spilt down my front
socks bunched up around my ankles
the caged animals will starve
a film will settle
The ringing telephone minstrel serenades
my soul, softly,
laying me down.