I don’t know but what if my ghost goes
at night, goes out without me?
Leaving the bed with
the grin of an easy exit.
He would be like artless graffiti
beneath my kitchen window
as smiling I, do dishes to the world.
At night he could leave a dreamer
to trickle through alleys dropping
coins from his phantom pockets.
He might talk: tell of the flesh
in a spark eyed gab with other spirits
that cross paths like passing ants.
With their tether taut they might
turn back before the light
while we the dreamers rise
to gather all our coins.