Grandfather
Ghosts, I am told,
like to surprise
the living with smells
sometimes cloyingly sweet
lavender, honeysuckle, rose
At other times it’s rotting leaves
the stench of ectoplasm
they can’t control that seeps
betraying their presence
On the escalator
in the metro today
I smelt your soap
looked up sharply
then laughed
at a young black man
you would have distrusted
carrying your memory on his skin
First Published in: Cicada magazine (Jan/Feb 2002) Published by Carus Publishing Company, Cricket Magazine Group
Winner of the SCBWI Magazine Merit Award for Poetry 2002