a Way oF liFe Poetry

Krikor N. Der Hohannesian A WAY OF LIFE

Great clattering outside the bedroom window, early morning a late January day—dissonance of demolition, splintered pine boards, screech of metal on metal, ripping of upholstery. A frayed hassock pitches from the second story sun porch, throaty

metallic reverberations thud the steel bottom of the trash trailer. A cane-backed chair, a wicker hamper, cheap-jack panel…a roustabout, black-stubbled, says the house has been sold.

Henry and his wife both near 100 years, eight decades together in this, his house of birth, defying entropy—suddenly vanished like wraiths in the night.

So little I knew about them, she hanging out a second floor window reeling in the weekly laundry in the heat of summer and chill of winter, sheets starchy white—how fresh they must have smelled!

He, deaf as granite and not much for small talk, eight years and we had spoken once—about cutting down the Norway next to the chain-link, more sunlight for the tomatoes and broccoli. “Oh, fine by me”, he allowed and went on scruffing up yellowed thatch.

Now a bare bulb glows

a lone beacon in the attic window. The clothesline, unburdened, flaps in the icy March wind. A blue silence stares blankly from across the back fence.