the man upstairs

he says he misses you when you are gone.
sometimes you pretend he is your father.
other times, a toothless dog. he walks
with a huge stick. keeps his teeth 
in a cloud. shows you a scar
on his arm where they, "took him apart."
sometimes you believe he is a ghost.
other times you can hear the radio
through the walls & you can tell he is
listening to a sharpening knife.
you bake him bread one night. 
the hallway smells like rotten wood
& mice. he eat it in front of you
like he's never seen a meal before.
another day he knocks on your door
until the door becomes a pie tin.
you never have enough sugar. he needs
a haircut so you do it on the porch
with nothing but your hands. you pull out
nests & salamanders. overturn rocks.
once you catch him laying in the river
& you think he might be dead. 
he is not. instead, he is trying
to become a bird. isn't that 
what all men upstairs want? you would
not believe how many times i have
lived beneath a man. on broadway 
& then on union & then again
in the licorice dark of a jump rope room.
my father is just about as heavy
as the man upstairs. when i decide to leave
i do not tell him. i am broken hearted 
as if i am him. he plants his spare teeth
between the floor boards. there, on the second floor
of the rowhouse, a tree grows & just laughs.