There is a Ghost in My Hometown
 
but he doesn’t catch the echo

of laughter as it swims

though the hallway.

The paper there repels him.

It was once paint but

burned in the looming fire;

and the old cat, 

chase,

that used to sit on our porch in the mornings,

is dead. 


There is a ghost in my home town

and no matter how hard he tries

he can’t catch the liquid footfalls

of children playing,

silhouetted by the sun.

The equipment’s filled with turpentine

and the old horses

that used to spring

are now dots on a landscape

of dirty, splintering mulch

and yellow grass.


There is a ghost in my hometown

who walks through walls

and seeks to see a lover’s kiss

but finds, in empty 

mansions, the crystal chandeliers

all turned up on their sides

and scowling through broken teeth.


I am a ghost in my home town

and when my palms brush the ground like shovels

and I levitate bread in ringing corridors 

my eyes are wide open

but I see nobody.


No.


I am a ghost in my home town.

Your mother doesn’t call me

and no matter how hard I wait

I can’t find the bottle

that she hid behind the radiator.


There is a ghost in your home town,

my lovely little one,

but don’t you worry, 

despite the stars

that refuse to shine above

and the monsters

that proudly lurk in 

barren closets,

he won’t be here for long.