My Grandmother's Eternal Resting Place Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Without my parents here I have to improvise,
But I don’t skip lines:
I bake sugar cookies for my dogs,
And talk to my grandfather’s ghost wearing a fur
Coat in the blue tiled bathroom:
There are no answers from the gods, but their
Echoes keep up all week, like something which
Lives up to its advertisements,
A miracle sleeping on the front porch, her
Lips on the swings in the park where she’s never been:
Even with no one here, its funny the way they
Look at me, and the last time I saw mountains
We were driving by where she tests wine, high above
Where her husband was last seen approaching the summit:
And I haven’t been lost for sometime,
Because I’ve begun using fourteen point font, and I
Still tiptoe to the left of the lockers in the empty hallway
The day after she kissed me in the dark so I wouldn’t know,
And I woke up and tried to speak Latin into the juxtapositions
Of my fast lunch at the foot of the hurrying ants all around my
Grandmother’s eternal resting place.