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Dead Guys' Houses
My Daddy takes me to dead
guys' houses.
Smelly, boring places.
Dead guys' houses.
Not the amusement park, stomach-flipping thrills and squeals of
delight
Hot dogs and cotton candy and ice cream dripping down my arm.
Not the beach, booming waves and cawing seagulls
Hot sand and salt and brain-freezing drinks from Mom's cooler.
Not the movies, exploding color and bone-shaking sound
Popcorn and a soda so big I need two buttery hands to hold it.
Nope. Dead guys' houses.
Hushed whispers and musty, ancient furniture.
Where I pray for at least a glimpse of a ghost
Or, better still,
For one to swoop down this creaky staircase,
Maybe slide down the scarred banister,
Or circle our heads in a swirling wispy tornado.
I quietly beckon when no one else can hear.
But they always stay hidden.
Dead guys' houses is
where we go
Long trips in the back of the car to houses with names.
Mount Vernon.
Monticello.
Hyde Park.
Sagamore Hill.
Daddy thinks it's cool.
It's just another dead guy's house to me.
Echoes
By Tony Iovino
Kermit's laughter
lingers,
Where Thing One and Thing
Two once scurried,
While the Owl and the
Pussycat sailed away
And we whispered hushed
Goodnights to the Moon.
Now the child enters
Asking Daddy not for a
bedtime story,
But for the car keys.
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