Back of the Cover

My grandfather's room  
hummed mysteries  
up that dingy staircase;  
a 60's mustard yellow glow  
taunting young curiosity  
to strike temporary truce  
with conscience  
as well as ghosts  
in the walls    
 
Upon creaking  
into the Collector's den  
my face was met with racks of scolding  
guns, bows, ammunition-  
but hunting knives gleamed in open drawers    
and some on the floor  
in formation:  
friendly fish    
shimmering my many reflections.    
After imperiling a pirate with the finest    
I gently set it free.    
   
Treasure!   
Rings made with all sorts of metals   
shells, stones   
set neatly on fabric    
in lines    
on the top of his bureau-   
His bookshelves spouted poetry,    
flaunted classic records and novels
like old money    
A small writing desk
flashed me the raven's riddle   
while its resident sealing wax set
sang of cabbages and kings.   
   
Engaged by the sight    
of a wooden box    
dusty in the alcove window    
I imagined inside    
must be his collection of stories for children    
the squirrels had watched him write    
in his prime.    
The box was, indeed    
impenetrable.    
   
  Quietly ducking out   
with one last peek  of mustard yellow   
I knew I had only read    
the back of the cover.