GHOSTS
(a very true story)
I call it like I want it and leave the pickings for
the others - the ones who scratch and save, snare
and wonder, watch and remark. Journalists and men
with pens and snark. Disease filters through the
aisles where hundreds of others have sat. A
pilgrimage to a sacrilege, and that, my son, is that.
-
Today I was snug in Chelsea and left for dead in
the Village. On Perry Street, and then Charles, I
took it upon myself to saunter in where I chose.
An old lady had died, and left me all her clothes.
Her acting jewels, from 1967 and before, all still
arrayed upon her Broadway bed. Robert Preston,
Ed Gwynne, and more. I sat at her piano. Its
sickening sound made me abhor all else:
old, tired keys, so out of tune to be fired.
-
When I turned to see, there were only ghosts,
dragging through the kitchen, pretending to
play in the parlour, and, there, on her outsized
walls, all the posters and kettles and pictures
and rings of her eighty oldtime years. Those
ghosts were just staring to space.
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