THIS GHOST OF A CHANCE
Never having played games with
the master of the house, I'm not
sure if the procedure is right. My
dog sleeps soundly on the floor
where we are walking; nothing
stirs; not this night. The books all
say I have - like anyone else - a
skeleton. They make no mention
of a closet; so that's OK. It works;
my legs can dangle, and they can
walk. I am free, as far as that goes.
-
What are the odds, however, I'd
be doing this again. The Sheriff
is gone now - that was another
century indeed - and no one
now seems hounding my steps.
Besides, these days, they all
have other things to be doing.
-
I take out that string-tied box
and undo it. Reams of 20 year
old papers, words I was never
able to find, things I've thought
about for years. Now? Why?
I'm too old and untidy for any
of this; everything has its own
complications and these days
one ever listens at all. You can
meet me in Hell, when we're
all said and done - if you're
game - and we can talk it
over there, and some.
No comments:
Post a Comment