There are walls in this house
that he once touched
with pipe tobacco stained fingers
windowsills he opened
leaving grey ghostly prints
and faded grime, perhaps
from yard work and oiling
tools that hang unused mostly
in the potting shed
in both the old and the new
basements, full of reminders
of his hobbies from his first marriage
as well as model trains
partly set up, never run
a dream he had for retirement
that never happened
not with his sons nor grandsons
I climb stairs he once trod
looking for signs despite fresh paint
of the million times or more
he must have gone up and down
with ease, and later, difficulty
finding a lone nail sticking up
that I hammer down
to keep from snagging socks
and bare feet of his second family
left behind, each in our own grief,
some days, overlapping
where once he walked, slept, laughed,
looked to each of us for love
and safety, until his abrupt departing.