Sept 13, 2011

Sitting here at the diningroom

table, the house quiet, the ghost

of my grandmother sits across from me,

peeling potatoes for a Thanksgiving

that is always looming but never arrives.

I am on my second cup of coffee. She is resisting

the powerful temptation to straighten up

the livingroom and scrub the kitchen.

The ceiling fan is missing a blade

and gently sings above our heads,

"a buket a bucket a bucket,"

but neither of us rises to answer.