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Poem

Writing this while entities, ghosts are present --
Not able or willing to make themselves appear.
How could I know? You might, rightfully, augment.
I've always been able to sense when they're near.
But, alas -- time after time, there is nothing there.

I said, "they're," a lie -- you knew I meant "she,"
Didn't you? Why would I otherwise be so concerned?
At the peripheral of vision, mad treetops shake free.
In those shuckling movements, the wisp is returned.
The room I light, windows sealed, mirrors all turned.

I call friends and toast a garlic grilled cheese on rye.
There are occasional pests of undetermined colors
Scurrying to escape my wrath and condemning eye;
And, a sulfuric, rotten egg odor like old car mufflers.
I want to leave; but, am wary of moonlight shufflers.

On the roof it is peaceful, quiet. I am alone -- for now....
It is frustrating to not be certain if a person is tethered
Or crossed over -- a condition not only does death endow.
A face flashes. The phone rings. Her page is weathered.
Too few glimpses, hearsay, rumors -- I am surrendered.

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