In dream after dream he whistles
up our long driveway,
 
striding home for lunch,
dogs running crazy circles
 
at his feet, and I know full well 
why I'm dreaming him,
 
he who hasn't breathed my 
name for years, or lifted
 
any food into his own
mouth, my silent
 
but undead father
enduring the static
 
of dementia's 
untuned radio.
 
"I used to hate making
his sandwich every day,"
 
Mom remarks, spooning
him some more yogurt.
 
But even in dream
I know why he whistled
 
deep into middle age,
show tunes and Irish jigs,
 
whistling like the kid
I never knew,
 
whistling the years' leaves
off our Norway maples,
 
making up a melody
on the spot that he'd
 
never whistle again,
in this or any other life.
                        

The earth is always heavy dark where I dig it. 
Often I put out the lantern 
and breathe until the kerosene odor is gone, 
then dig on.
The earth smell varies with each shovelful, 
each trip into my tunnels, 
each season in the warmth beneath my cellar 
and radiating outward
under the lawns and streets of the neighborhood. 
I like the sudden feel of a stone 
jamming against the shovelblade, 
or the resilience of an unexpected taproot ahead. 
I bother no one.
I avoid cellars and storm drains. I dig deep 
or not at all. Once in a while, perhaps, 
a dog with head cocked for a moment 
suspects me ten feet beneath his paws.
But in the light, of sun or streetlit houses, 
the wind ruffling constantly 
through the branches and sashes of the town, 
it is easy to be distracted.
I carry no watch
and sometimes I dig all night.

I was famous in my time, egg man, ghost,
Mr. Fix-it with my office in my head.
I wandered this valley forty years before
I cared to know it was going to hell.
Which it is, and if you have to ask how
I'm surprised you can lace up your own shoes.
 
I drove the oldest pickup in creation
from Fonda to Canajoharie. I
sold whatever I had near cost, then ran
dogs up and down these hills, looking for
what they lost, I guess. I didn't need reasons.
I was my own business, don't you know.
 
You thought that when McDonalds razed the timber
off Rattlesnake Hill and laid down asphalt,
when the Diemer place became Valley View
Retirement Acres, I would go away,
like bears your grandmother saw as a girl
from her bedroom window. Where would I go?
 
You think I'm probably crazy, brewing 
roadside weeds for tea, thistle and ditchgrass,
finding coins melted from spring drifts. I'm just
stubborn, married to myself so long
I've set one way. I've got my patch of sun—
hell, I even go to McDonalds two,
 
three times a month. The other day some kids,
tough guys, threw stones down a ravine where I
was running my hounds—hit one in the rib
so she howled like fury. Did I chase them?
Did I leave an axe sunk in their front door
for a sign, or let chicken blood drip
 
in a pail of milk? I did not, but now
you see. I'm all right. And when it gets cold
I may move to town—never mind just where.
For now I'm in your farthest pasture,
liable to melt off like mist if you look
too close, but I won't go away.
 
For what you don't know, what you haven't
any clue, is the rut I am putting
in your life, past paddock, driveway, window.
In the gnat cloud under your light I swirl,
in the yelp of a hound I rise free,
and when my slow wings spread wide, it is night.