Ghost of Me

(Libra, on the Verge of Some Autumn)

Stepping down from one life
Into the moonlit street,
I passed a ghost of myself
On the way up,
Back into the building I'd
Just walked out of.
It was full of curiosity and desire,
And didn't want to listen
Unless it could hear "Yes."

And if I could write this in
Grey ink, I would--
This ghost
This me
Almost invisible
Almost inaudible
Player piano tinkling
Out of a small back window
In a victorian
As your car passes by
On a busy street
At midday:
That's the essence of the thing.

Ghost of me--
Single-minded, the way
Ghosts often are,
But in that single-mindedness,
Shut off from mortal wisdom.

I tried to stop myself
As I brushed by me,
But could only peer inside
My invisible past heart,
And gaze at
The large hurts, deep scars,
Great joys, all-consuming loves;
The huge experiences of then,
Which now, in retrospect,
Are faded quilt pieces--
Smaller components of me.
"Live in the present," I reminded myself,
"And don't carry your dead with you."
I kept walking.

But is the past really dead?
Less a cadaver
Than a lost milk-carton child? My heel
Touched concrete,
And my ghost continued onward
To search for me
Where only other spirits
Remained.


© Alan Reade, 2001