owners in a house where an old man,
who must have smoked like a devil, died
four months ago, I cut it
down to rollable strips, shoulder
it to the driveway, fibers working
into the sweat on my arms and face.  A job

is a job, and the last room is darkest,
its must filling my throat and lungs, coating
my tongue.  Strip the place
they said, so I lift
the Venetian blinds from their brackets, admitting
afternoon light, fuchsias outside
and the shadow of a star magnolia. Old man

without a name, did you
do nothing but smoke?  Look on the stained
wall, a ghost where your colonial
mirror hung.  Kneeling in the doorway I find
your trace, an L-shaped path in the carpet
leading around the foot of the bed
to your pillow on its eastern side.  No bed

no blinds, no nothing.  Old man, were your slippers
brown, and leather, if you wore slippers?  Did
box springs creak acceptance when you swung
your legs up and under the covers?
Did you notice a star, where the day
before there had been a bud?  Did--
are you listening?  Whisper something.  Touch me

on the shoulder, I dare you.
To hear you padding toward sleep, to see
a match's flare, and in the flare
your hand.  Instead, I leave you
all this carpet absorbed, a blessing
like sleep at the end of the day, a godless
prayer for both of us before
I lift the knife.