Ghost

You lie and tell me

That

You were not

In the house.

But

I find ashes

From your cigarette

Dropped on top

Of the green metal dresser

In the dining room

As you smoked

And drank

Most liberally

The richly expanding

Green syrupy contents

From within the antique

Chartreuse bottle

That sat there

Atop

Patiently

Waiting for those

Wonderful

Bits of time

In which I would uncork

That fine bottle

And value

It’s contents

While walking around

In a snowstorm

Befalling

The Victorian town in which I live.

The expensive

Meant to be sipped and appreciated

Apertif contents

Drained wrecklessly

Within one half of an hour

Like cheap barfly

Fortified wine.

You lie

And say that you were not here.

But a single earring of yours

Lies on the floor

In the hallway

Where the dogs like to lay

As the light of the sun

Passes through the thick glass lens

Of the front door

Warming their fur and the soft pine

Upon which they sleep

Dreaming

In color

Of heaven.

The sun

Falls upon a tiered

Hoop earring

Made of inexpensive brass.

It’s unmistakeably yours...

Probably purchased

From a flea market vendor

Or from a store that sold

Trinkets from India.

Now it is here alone and lonely.

There is a half of a cigarette

Put out carefully, neatly on the front step

To the house.

It is your brand.

You tell me that you weren’t here

But there it is...

A half of a cigarette

Ready to be relit and smoked

Down to the butt

As you sat out front on the porch

Or the stoop

Taking pleasure in your malady

Caught in the throes

Of the precious green nectar.

Your sauced and plastered mind

Forgetting about

This partially smoked

Piece of evidence

That you were here

Inside this house

Dancing with the ghosts

Of the past.