The Closet 

My grandfather sits

In the closet

Of the back room 

In my grandmother’s basement 

He cannot see

Or hear

Or move

He just sits there 




As he has done 

For the past seven years

Sometime I want 

To be a thief

In the night

And steal

My grandfather

And spread his ashes

Upon the Canadian lakes

That reflect the bluest sky

So he can feel the sun

And be caught up in 

The northern breeze

Where he once

Felt alive