Her slippers shuffle along
The carpet, with swirls of faded bronze. 
Wrinkled hands worn by casino youth, waltz 
Through the smell of hot leather,
Balancing china cups and saucers.
With eyes that sing the marble green
Of the Empress staircase, her face is the ghost
Of a lost love.

And I, with tiny toes that cannot yet tap
On the ballroom floor below, 
Eat jam sandwiches
On my Grandmot...

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Maybe it’s those absent eyes,
gone searching for their better days,
that give away your hide and seek disguise
and tell me that you’re far away.

Are you back in New York,
chasing that old American dream
through the concrete foundations
on which you built our family's beam?

Or are you in Wigan’s Central park,
in Billy Boston’s Empire State,
watching Warriors paint the town red
then p...

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