Tag Archives: Poetry

On Damaged Friends

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There is a man

who wanders into my cube occasionally

to chat.

It’s a welcome break from office tedium.

I brighten up and smile.

He sees me brighten up and always seems shocked, then brightens up himself.

Having seen this, I brighten up some more.

I have to wonder,

Does no one else smile when he walks in?

Does he get so little affection in life

that it only takes this amount of love to throw him?

 

When I was a kid, we used to pass a boy on our rural back road

standing at a muddy, grassy bend.

Just standing.

He used to wave

and I would wave back.

“He’s retarded,” my  mom would say dismissively.

As if that made his all-inclusive friendliness less meaningful.

But she would wave as well.

I was always happy to see him.

 

There is a man who stands on his front lawn

In a derelict part of town.

Every day on the way to work I pass him by.

He waves to everyone whose face and car he recognizes.

We wave back.

Often he has more than one person on the lawn with him

sometimes sitting on his sidewalk steps

sometimes standing with their backs to him and chatting to one another.

His house seems to be a gathering place

at seven in the morning.

But I am a grown woman now

so when I pass him by

I worry about him.

 

 

 

On Ghosts

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You might call me a ghost agnostic.

One time I found a video of a ghost. It was shot in a dark room with poorly balanced lighting on the camera, you know how it goes. The footage said something like, “MOST AMAZING SUPERNATURAL FOOTAGE etc etc.” You clicked on it, and watched a murky silhouette of a ghost. It was sitting in a chair. It kind of shifted around, like it needed to get its buttcheek meat properly situated. Then it disappeared. Wow. Most amazing.  People are thrilled to the toes when they see something they can’t explain, so they don’t seem to realize what boring lives ghosts lead. All of a ghost’s angst and drama is built around wanting to move, to get out, but being trapped by their own bitterness or sense of responsibility. It’s just office life all over again.

 

Ghosts are people too.

Ghosts wear too much perfume

They smoke inside.

They enjoy a nice rocking chair.

They use the stairs

Turn on the stove

Get annoyed at closed doors.

They pace when troubled.

They trip people

And pull hair.

They make phone calls.

They battle household pets.

They drop dishes

And run loudly into furniture

And knock over lamps, they’re clumsy as shit.

Ghosts go for walks.

Use umbrellas.

They’re very stealy.

Ghosts love musical instruments

But are painfully tone deaf.

Anytime a ghost manifests and picks a wedgie

There will be an idiot with a camera

Who distributes this fascinating footage

To the awestruck, stupidstruck living.

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