If You See Me, Tell Me to Come Home
Somewhere in L.A.
my ghost waits in a glass box
on the corner of Spring and 4th.
Confined by the crystal,
it leans tipped against a garbage can,
where the beggar woman
with the hunched back,
knitted sweaters, ruddy shoes
finds her late, evening supper.
It's the same place where,
the Skid Row rascals, flying rats
reside, picking their teeth
masticating on the city carcasses
left decaying just beyond
the subway gates
and public park entrances.
And somewhere in L.A.,
a man labors towards a goal left dangling
on a string,
just out of reach
of these demons.
of these demons.
He works hard, hardly talks
except to the one who dreams
of his phantom,
laying still, breathing silence
holding his ghost
on the Eastern Shore.
Now, somewhere here
I’m left wondering...
The other piece of me,
sobbing, crying out for the man
whose ghost I’m not holding.
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