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.