The ghosts I meet have long gray hair
and congregate in couples. They’re
much older than I know.
They constitute a glow:
a luminescence, like those prehistoric fish
which live unfathomably deep. A wish
appears to emanate from them
for me to join and talk: “Ahem,”
they whisper, as if I were not already looking:
“Hey! What’s cooking?”
Friendly shadows, all in all,
and yet I sense a certain pall –
something secret – pained:
their folksiness is feigned.
Still, I’d sit down, were I able –
but there’s no room at their table.
.
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