Every night I hear them
spectral voices from the past
rising up through floorboards
made all the more surreal
mixed with wind of furnace
washing machine
dryer hum
when each time I hesitate
going down alone
with always that sense of being watched

In the far end
a guitar amp
that I used to play with a semi-acoustic
in middle age trying to recapture the magic
the guitar sold to a dear friend
who has since passed away
long gone the dream
of being a rock star
and now glad I never went down that road
and yet in a manner of speaking
still a rock star as we all
in our own individual way

Two bicycles
stand side by side
a 26” black domestic
of which the name escapes me
one of my long-time favorites
oh the many miles it carried me
on summer 8pm flights with my hair on fire
Walkman playing
straight ahead rock ‘n roll in my ears
now the bicycle sits with all but one gear gone
and no money to have it repaired yet again

The second smaller a CCM
(Craziest Crates Made)
a fun nickname for when we were kids
though one of the best and Canadian
(didn’t know they still made them)
a retirement gift to myself
that’s hardly been used
I took it out in the early days
but not very far
a simple route around the neighbourhood
as much off the road as possible
soon realizing it wasn’t a good fit
bikes are like shoes
besides now busy streets scare me
even with bike lanes
too many distracted and angry drivers
as I remarked to a former girlfriend
who used to ride with me
my days of pedaling downtown are long gone

In the middle
boxes of VHS tapes
that won’t play anymore
mixed with artifacts from modeling days
a tradition brought up from childhood
now most of my masterpieces
sit in a large box in pieces
while a few others salvaged
into separate containers
a dresser full of aviation magazines
along with posters decals and paint
I’ll probably never use again
no longer the eye sight
to pick up where I left off

At the other end
I used to have my workshop
the desk still there where I used to build
covered in layers of dust
crammed between old shelving
with odds and ends
broken computer monitors and keyboards
an old kitchen metal table from the 60s
with that distinctive red speckled top
pushed against
a dear friend’s drafting table
that she’ll never use again

The real prize however
remains the two tall boxes of parents’ photographs
family heirlooms
and the continuous albeit intermittent task
of sorting through them
digitalizing the best

Someday
after the pandemic
I’ll try to sell some of this stuff
the rest going in the garbage
or carted off by Got Junk
(I’ve used them before)
while other things are just too precious
painful to part with
at least for now

Taking one last look around
I head back upstairs
closing the light behind me
the door left open a crack for the cat
when once again
for better or worse
I hear the soft moans
of those ghosts from the past


© 2021

400 hits as of April 2024

04/16/2021

Author's Note: The title and concept for this poem have been in my head for years, but I was never ready to write it. Tonight, it finally came out.

Posted on 04/16/2021
Copyright © 2024 Chris Sorrenti