I haunt the poet. No, I own the poet.
I make him cry or sneer his wry grin.
Each morning I carefully fog his eyes
like bathwater layers gray on pale porcelain.
One would think I could find a better body to possess,
but I grow fond of this one. As long as this old guy thinks he’s a poet,
I can speak without a Ouija. I have always hated that game
with all its yes and no questions. With this poet, there’s no need
to spell letter by letter. I give him my surreal post cards,
and he eagerly scribbles on the back. You may ask
why waste my time when I could be climbing clouds
or rippling through walls. Eternity is boring, and the dead
love company. How about you? Why are you reading this?
Maybe we share the same motives. We need to feel alive,
to subdue our loneliness, to accept the inevitable darkness.
Perhaps there is something missing in our hollow, thumping hearts.
Maybe we’ll find the beauty we long for in a poem.
It is brazenly ironic how we draw fresh life from these hoary words,
bristle with the ghostly rustle that stalks our breath,
choke on the cold smoke of the deepening night.
There is something worth staying for, even as we fade.