baby ghost
wrinkles the river
I gaze
at its drowsiness
as I masticate
on the meanings of why
because inside me is misaligned
and its cold, sleepy eye
- cautionless -
shall twitch
like visible white noise
when TV boxes snap
neither shoals
nor skipping stones
breaches the facade of a conspiratory sea
river rattles
'cause it's my baby's ghost:
The Deer Hunter
picked her blossom
tending his garden
of wicked passion
for crooked lotuses
laying dead
afloat
A feeble old woman lives down the hall,
we chat on occasion.
I indulge her constant kvetching of youthful occupants invasion,
since this erstwhile hotel's trendy loft conversion.
Crook'd finger and conspiratory whisper
lure me to door ajar.
She tells of the latest spat between two male lovers living next door;
bitter pursed lips mouth, gays, a lifestyle she abhors.
Clad in wool coat, in August, faded scarf
hiding brittle grey hair,
gnarly fingers clutch at worn collar, scent of mothballs hangs in thick air;
up-turned nose revering fragrant yesteryears.
Deaf, my gaze is drawn within the open loft
where a grand piano,
sits, awash, in vast rays of sun spilling in from unshielded windows;
age-yellowed keys playing notes she no longer knows.
Miss Catherine, are you divorcee or spinster,
or a mournful widow?
Did melodies seep from beneath steel door and waft through open windows,
while in lovers arms, you danced in moonlit shadows?
Torches passed, some girl down the hall, fancies me
'an old maid with her cats',
eye to peephole, ear to door listening to youth go quickly past;
curious if in my day, rakishly I danced.
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