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?
The Rummy Writer 