(And you should because this poem and the ones that follow will make much more sense.)
A little backstory for you: My grandmother Jean Bennett worked in the music industry and managed one of the most famous doo wop groups in history, The Platters. Their golden years were from 1955 - 1965. In 1965, she shut down her offices in New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago and moved to Las Vegas. This poem is a re-imagining of the day she walked through this house after it had been raided by police. The details about the condition of the house are mostly true--right down to the rotting roast left in the oven. Its former occupants were tipped off by a phone call and barely escaped before police got there. Whether or not there was an actual ghost is anybody's guess. I can tell you that a man did, in fact, die a gruesome death in the master bedroom, and I can tell you that there was always an eerie 'presence' that could be felt by any of us who dared to pay attention.
More to come...
Grandma’s House – Part II
Where’d everybody go?
Wonders the resident revenant,
wandering out of the master,
slinging the highball in his hand
so the ice bruises
the edges down
on his Rusty Nail
just right.
Was it something I said?
The paneling looks great, by the way.
The former Mr. Jilted
laughs like Clarity
standing in the invigorating ambience
of comeuppance;
his peals could peel paint.
He tosses back the drink
As well as the drapes,
letting the light of requital
shine right in.
And what does he see
coming up the walk
but a beauty,
truly.
Va Va Voom!
She could be Lana Turner’s
little sister, or a blonde Jackie-O.
She trickles into the entryway
like a teardrop
behind an old mare of a woman who
clomped through the door after
she shanked it with a key,
letting herself in
like she owns the damn place.
“Here we are,” the old nag neighs,
“and remember, Ms. Bennett,
to look beyond. Imagine
what your sharp sense of style could
make of this place!”
Well, aren’t you an eyeful, Princess?
You make a fella wish
he still had both his eyes.
“I know it’s a
wreckandamess—
Speak for yourself.
Please forgive us.
The bank
has been
sitting on this one
a while, and really …
had no time to …
and anyway …
heckuva deal!
Stiletto heels with ankle straps
step across
the threshold and in
to the fray. Over
the Monopoly game board, through
scattered cash,
white, pink, yellow, green, blue.
Green houses and red hotels
flung about the foyer.
They should’ve grabbed
one of those
Get Out of Jail Free Cards
on their way out.
Looking around,
laundry on the sofa,
unmentionables left unfolded.
Cracker Jacks catapulted
across the orange shag carpet.
A bottle of Coca-Cola
lying lonely,
flat as a photo on the coffee table.
Half set dinner table,
milk curdled and crusted in glasses,
godawful smell accosting the senses,
rancid roast rotting.
For God’s sake, woman, why
did you open that oven door!
A pink hankie in the crosshairs
of a perfect shot of perfume,
over Ms. Bennett’s button nose
for the rest of the tour:
medicine in cabinets,
clutter in closets,
beds in shambles,
the whole house dismantled.
A phone off the hook
shoes strewn about;
its previous occupants leaving without
their clothes and their soap,
their LPs and their dope.
What are you thinking, Ms. Bennett?
“What are you thinking, Ms. Bennett?
I know it’s not exactly in tiptop shape…”
“Obviously whoever lived here tore out of this place… why?”
“All I know is that the owner was some sort of business woman. I don’t really know the details…”
Liar.
“I do have to disclose, however…”
Oh, here it comes…
“There was an unfortunate accident…”
… no there wasn’t.
“… and the owner’s boyfriend
passed away
here on the property,
in the backyard.”
That’s not what the neighbors say.
And all Ms. Bennett has to say
is, “Shall we see the backyard?”
The swamp looks like sewage
half full in the pool
and even the stench
does nothing to assuage
the dainty Mizz B
who admires the trees,
still leaning their elbows
on the Spanish shingles.
“I’ll take it,” she says.
“You will?”
You will?
“I will! For fifteen thousand
under that ridiculous asking price.”
“Oh, Ms. Bennett,
I’m sure the bank won’t…”
“Yes, it will.”
She starts to walk back
through the sliding glass doors.
“Miss Bennett,” says the mare, “if I may…”
“Yes?”
“If the bank agrees…”
“They’ll agree.”
“You’re not afraid of…”
“Of what? That a man died here?”
Miss Bennett has quite
the impressive
smirk.
“I’m not afraid of ghosts,” she laughs
and waves a dismissive hand
right through the mess
in my neck.
We’ll see.
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