Driving Through the Old Neighborhood

By Jim Daniels

half lost, half by accident, I catch myself
looking back over my shoulder, searching
for my grandfather waving from his porch
as he always did till we were out of sight.

Though he’s been out of sight for over thirty
years, and that porch, that house, gone nearly
that long, two houses left on that city block
in Detroit, the rest weeds and rubble

and a few sad bare trees planted by a city
hoping for shade. Before he left,
he bought the vacant lots on both sides
of the house for half of a prayer. Always

the optimist, a farmer for hope, a twenty
pinned to the inside of his shirt, insurance
against having to give up his wallet
one more time. I admit to sadness

at the missing marker of his farewell,
the rocker chained to his wooden porch,
his raised hand fading in distant haze.
Of course, all of our hands drop eventually

but if I just had the porch, I might conjure it,
his hand, that magic butterfly emerging into
the new fields of weeds, wondering, what is
this new strange, wonderful place?

I remember his stage set: bones strategically
placed, a loose chain on the porch
as if the imaginary dog had just stepped inside
for a drink. Beware of Dog, the sign said.

Some nights he even stood out in the dark
calling it home. Oh, even now, I’d still
come running back if called.