Incorrigible

My grandson lurks in closets,
the Sweatshirt Phantom who leaps
from hangers to his sister's bed.

Sue's treble vibrates the walls
for days. I practice ruler beatings,
withheld dinners. Nothing works.

Where do I go from here, officer?
Corridors loom with dead ends;
it is difficult to enter this phase.

In the hospital's left wing basement,
a man not very kindly pulls aside
sheets: do you know these boys?

I count names off my fingers:
Claude, Sean and Eric. My foolish
Pete bleeds through rigor mortis.

He knows the consequences
of taking out my old Ford--
daytime curfew, daily weeding.

But I doubt he'll like the flowers,
his parents' grave bickering, Sue's rare
visits to his part of the cemetery.