It was some years after

the second great round of killing

had ended

and Bob was no longer needed to help make

the instruments of death.

They were gathered for a picture in the

gray walled living room

of the small house.

They were celebrating the first birthday

of the shy one year old hiding in Daddy's arms

and they all beamed,

all of them gathered in innocence

for just about the last

time.

Forty-five years later,

as the Birthday Boy was cleaning out the old house

in that final week of Grace Mary's life,

their ghosts were still standing there.

It was all he could do

to not stare at them

and be drowned.