they gutted the place,
covered all the walls with beige paint,
stripped it clean of personality,
of his books, his cane, his art,
his empty bed, his old torn chinos, his shoes,
the daily singing sound of him, vibrating in the walls and floors

they updated the crumbling fireplace
that kept him warm for a week when a bad snowstorm hit,
the mantle where he kept pictures of his descendants,
and all the framed spirits waiting patiently for his arrival

they ripped out the attic that once held 40 cluttered years of dusty souvenirs
and installed a second story with empty rectangular eyes,
removed a wall to expand the tiny kitchen,
fixed the dilapidated stairs descending to the basement,
replaced the rusting, cranky, oil guzzling furnace

no one sees him when he walks down the hill to the town,
watches the boats come and go in the harbor,
taps his foot when summer bands play jazz in the gazebo,
follows the parade crowds down main street on memorial day

if you don’t believe me, enter the old man’s address into google maps

you will see his house,
the way it used to be,
on a day with a perfect balance of sun and clouds,
and his blurry ghost, who for the moment,
is asleep in his chair on the green front lawn

I have approached his little house many times on my computer screen,
stood in front of him and listened to the familiar wind in the trees,
watched the flag beside the front door lifting gently,
leaned on the split-rail fence holding up his tomato plants,
smelled the roses and daylilies he planted along his driveway,
watched him sleep in his forever afternoon,
leaving me with a futile longing to go home again,
walk up the uneven brick path in need of repair,
reach out and give his warm shoulder a little nudge,
waking him from his long, long golden nap