Scrap Memories

by Mike Love

The old neighborhood
lies in state.
That’s our house
on the corner,
plenty of room
in the attic for ghosts.
Plenty of space
out back for my mother
to drink and howl.
A wishbone dries
on the kitchen sill.
Us kids in the woods
building something
with dead limbs.
My father at the furnace,
burning
in the basement.