It’s there
On top of the cupboard there
Sitting next to you
Unseen
There on the ceiling
A ghost
Waiting to be free
In the bathroom
Watching you bathe
Like a ghost
Like a ghost of himself
They say
Like a ghost
The stuffing knocked out of him
(So soused)
He buys his paper in the morning
“Hello, Mrs. Wilson.”
With his cat on his lap
He watches the TV
And he doesn’t cry or get angry anymore
And he doesn’t want to change the world anymore
Let it keep its own counsel
On top of the cupboard there
Sitting next to you
There on the ceiling
Unseen
A ghost of himself
Waiting to be free
And from here I imagine you
Not in my bed
Collecting apples, windfallen
From here I imagine you
But not hanging over me
Wrists on my shoulder
But driving your car
Swearing beautifully
I imagine your body
The tips of your elbows
The pads of your feet
Pampered completely
I imagine reaching for you, touching you
But not with tears
With the beauty of every day
Over and over
I imagine you in the sunshine, maybe
Whatever the weather
Whatever is on TV
I imagine you