The flip side of that open door poem.

   

The Busy Dead

Heather Ross Miller

My husband's ghost tears through here every morning,
quarter of seven, on his loud-ass motorcycle, that damn
Honda thing he was so proud of, even though it spun
out from under him, nearly broke his ankle, had him
hobbling for a month.

Sometimes I think he's tearing right up the stairs,
through my room, then down the stairs again, an
avalanche of sass.

This a man who survived Pearl Harbor, never liked
guns, yet rode with fire and power between his legs,
a perfect meld of man and machine.
I mean to get up and stand by the road
like old Delilah in front of older Samson,
tempting all that noise and velocity.  I mean
to make him stop.  I'll say, Do you know
we've got grandsons?  Should be enough.
But then, oh God, I'll miss the distant drone,
the growing roar of a motorcycle delivering
his upstart ghost to my desperate door.

   

Comments

[Bob Rhodes]

"An avalanche of sass." Wonderful. This whole poem carries you straight through, fast as that motorcycle.

[Susan Allen]

This is wonderful -it's funny how much we really love what may annoy us most about those we love - you always just hit right on the very truth and essence of things, and that's what makes your poems so great. This is a great motorcycle love poem, and I love the ending, his "upstart ghost" delivered, by the motorcycle, to your "desperate door." Perfect.

[Heather Miller]

Thanks guys. He's been gone 19 years, Susan, and still gets on my nerves!

[Kathryn Gessner]

Very funny poem! What a character statement, "never liked /guns but rode with fire and power between his legs." Whew. I know the motorcycle to be the source of much trouble! Yes.