A Date With a Ghost
There we were, my coffee cup and I
secluded in the corner booth
where flights of new realities,
my own created children, rose and soared
and readily transmogrified, touched down
and died according to my will.
I loved them all.
They were my fleet of consciousness
and altogether temporal,
yet in their frailty could darken houselights,
raise their stage to hide the universe
and for the nonce assume totality.
A single wisp of thought came through
and it was no surprise to be aware
that the professor with his pipe,
tweed coat and frowzy hair
now sat across and looking at me
quizically, but not disposed
to answer any questions
I was eager to propose, though I
had read his latest book, and knew
his vast research could lead me
down the path I wished to go.
For the moment I could merely know
he was my august puppet, not my key
to magic chests of insight... that he shared
the wisdom of the academes
that I once listened to,
and who would only point the way.
My cup was empty; I snapped back
and saw the room return, and it was time
to kill him off in tenderness. "You know"
he said, as he began to fade,
"I cannot help but go out wondering,
what kind of God are you?"
~
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