Ghosts

It takes years for them to take form
From memories confused with memories

A head-scarf, the style of hair
A coat, a manner of talking
A snatch of laughter
The balance when walking
Through the market stalls
On the air, a scent
A melody

When night takes hold its better
Where they inhabit is not so clear
In shadows casts by street light
In restaurant corners
And closed cafés

Is it a superstition that waiters have
To upturn chairs on empty tables?
Does this deny seating to spectres?

Are the awnings rolled up to let in the moonlight
That bathes the lake?
Do they believe its cleansing touch
Will purge the patio
After they have swept away the loose crumbs
Of comfort, laughter, tears
And licentious whispers?

The last bus en route to the edge of town
Carries a lone passenger

Who turns her head
To peer at the pedestrian

Fearing similarities
Hoping for differences
Wishing he were

Uttering a prayer
That he isn’t

He glances up as the bus goes by
Misses a beat as he thinks
That it’s her

Then dismisses the thought
As being highly unlikely

CLP 09/06/2025 (10/06/2025)