A ghost, he said, is someone living too long,
Too damn long in my case. A ghost’s without
Visible means of support, and so is poor
And often falls or stumbles. A ghost grows
Less and less kind, with no one of its kind
To commiserate. (Ghosts never see ghosts.)
A ghost resents the fully, appropriately alive
Bodies all around it for being what it isn’t,
Not anymore. A ghost blames the living
Who once loved it, who it once loved,
For moving on without it, for not loving it,
As if it still belonged among the living.
A ghost is an impostor, a liar, a subtle show,
The disturbance of air under a bird’s wing. . .
He paused. He looked pretty poorly. His face
Was an intersection of halos and shadows.
His grey-black clothes hung dusty and worn.
He had no wallet and no money for one.
Many old injuries announced themselves
In the agonizing angles of fingers and limbs.
Ghosts, he resumed, would like to be kind,
To be lovely and loved. A ghost would like
Not to blame the lusciously alive for its pallid
Predicament. But a ghost has no business
Hanging around, breathing, and knows only
Its own cowardice stops it when it should go.
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