A Haunting

When we drive down familiar streets in this city

I can point out all the places I felt my life coming together

and pulling splendidly apart–

bookstores, bars, and the lot,

where the geography of my life,

the locations where who I used to be,

and who I am, intersected for a short while.

All of my ghosts haunt this town, haunt me

though they’re long gone,

and I see their faces curling

in cigarette smoke–foaming

at the bottom of a pint glass.

They stick, to my subconscious,

and if my business is unfinished,

do I haunt them too?

Do I linger just over the peak of their shoulder?

Am I there at the edge of the chipped

medicine cabinet, the smudge of a thought

while they consider what’s for dinner,

if they should grab an umbrella 

on their way out the door?