“Heaven Means” by Tom Pescatore

There is a secret
stair in my grandfather’s
closet, one tucked away
behind his clothes.
I think maybe he didn’t
even know about it,
mainly, because it seems
accessible only in dreams.


I walk up those
steps some nights, having
parted his slacks and
jackets, air getting thin,
sight diminishing,
brain suffocating,
but I never make it
to the top.


I believe it leads
to the roof, or
some other equally
magical place.








Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia, dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. He maintains a poetry blog. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally, but he’d rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row.