To a Noble Mind O’erthrown

You must have been confused
again,
just south of Glenwood,
waving to me last night
from Westinghouse
with its windowless maws.
You rose from parkway pangs
and underground radioactive molybdenum,
spewing yourself
-fluorescent and faded-
before broken remnants of time beneath exit 148.

I know it was you.

I caught you as you glinted
off the dull powder blue Volvo
rolling there in the right lane.
Ground with wheel-well grease
in the muted spring twilight
-windows closed-
I could smell it, and I knew it was you –
all oil and paper
and ink and sawdust
and sadness.

The price was right at 11 a.m.,
so you shuffled past the kitchen chair, dragged it
with your still stubbed toe,
thinking

Who is that dog staring at me?

He is a ghost now, too.
Outside remained the blizzard,
while inside the transistor crackled,
limply hanging from the headboard,
crusted ear bud curled
in the half-open drawer
next to brittle sticks of Juicy Fruit,
orphan keys,
grimy saved half dollars,
and under the ceiling light,
hot with being left on all day.

Is that my dog?
Where did he come from?

Never mind.
A cookie waits
under the Lucite pie plate top.
Maybe I just had one.
Either way,
shrug,
and have another.