Ghostology

Your cupboard is not a ghost. Your lamp is not a
ghost. Your television is not a ghost. Your electric
toothbrush is not a ghost. The wind through the
open window is not a ghost. The reflection in the
mirror is not a ghost. The minivan in the street is
not a ghost. The doorbell is not a ghost. The man
in your closet is not a ghost. The man in your
living room is not a ghost. The man in your
bathroom is not a ghost. The man in your kitchen
is not a ghost. When this man puts his hands on
yours, they are not ghost hands but real hands.
When this man leans over in the middle of the
night and says, I love you, they are not ghost
words but real words. You are afraid.

The White Poet

The White Poet wanders through whiteness. He
considers the things that are white. The streets
are white. The hills are white. The moon is white.
The shadows are white. The vacant lot where
children are fighting in the rain is white in his
thoughts. In memory, his mother’s hands are
white and stained with white dirt. Everywhere he
turns, a policeman stands behind him, flashing
his white flashlight into his White Poet Eyes.