…”Is this heaven?” I asked. (From: Earliest Memories)
Our neighbor across the corner
of 27th and Jones Street often sat
on his porch rocking and smoking his pipe.
When I was playing in the sandbox
the aroma would drift into our yard
and I’d run over to join him for the bubble gum
he kept in the top pocket of his bib overalls.
He’d let me relight his pipe. Off-key he’d sing out:
I’m a sailor. Always was and always will be,
A bow-legged old man trying to get back to sea.
His house was full of ships-in-a-bottle,
various models of vessels in which he’d sailed.
He told me tales of battles, storms and pirates.
Late in the summer I turned five, Mr. Cochran
stopped sitting on his porch. Mother took me
to visit but the air was full of sickness and fear.
i did not go back. One night that winter
we watched out our sleet-smeared window
at the hearse’s red slash of light. I wanted to know
where he was, where he’d gone, where he’d be.
Mother said, Mr. Cochran’s gone to heaven.
From the sidewalk I looked up to the potico
of the white funeral home with its white columns.
It was vast. The steps were steep and I was faint…
