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About This Poem
Ghosts
The face at the window,
the feeling of dread as I tread
to the door, the mysterious welcome,
a touch on my shoulder, a cough
down the hall, a shadowy figure
in Civil War dress looking oddly
like me, blowing his bugle then
vanishing into the dark.
I am back at Appomattox,
my comrades around me
lying dead or dying.
In front of a looking glass
feeling transparent,
we stare in the mirror,
there's no image, no image at all.
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