Like a Ghost
I haunt the frigid morning as a visible
apparition, like this: steam breath,
lone footprints in the packed spring snow.
Even the beautiful, reluctant sun cowers
behind a gray sheet upon spotting me
unmasked. Even the ravens remain
hidden in their branches, turning down
fresh death. Like a whisper half-heard,
I glide past all the diners and coffee
chains posting “Takeout Only” signs,
I fight the urge to skip stones on the icy
main drag once replete with cars.