​

This Man, This Ghost, Whatever I Was

​

She pulled me close only to smell for liquor on my breath.

​

“I didn’t believe in Ghosts until I met you,” she whispered.

 

Like a passenger jet crashing into a field of sunflowers, I 'd taken out a payday loan to fund this bender and

 

denied absolution,

 

I left with half-a-tank and a ripple of doomsday carving through my veins.

 

I conformed to the stop-and-go traffic, edging through the downpour like cattle driven to slaughter.

 

I had phantom limb pains and a pinched sciatica, insisting that,

 

“The worst sinners have the best testimonies.”

 

I tried to to divine providence in in the rainbow swirl of oil slicks, knowing that this was but

 

a place holder,

a symbol of wanting.

 

Was this my purpose?

Was this my calling?

 

Windshield wipers, opening and closing like sedate eyelids:

 

This man

this ghost,

 

whatever I was.

​

Gaseous, potential planets yawned open before me

​

and so I turned the music up louder and louder,

​

unable to feel anything.