Ghost at Grandma’s

Standard

touched
touched not even barely.
it still counts as contact,
doesn’t it?

I’m touched as if by wind, the whirl of a single fan blade
I’m touched, a spec of dust,
a small petal
dropping:
it’s just the thought that counts.

you are all eyes
watching me as you go from door to doorstep
you don’t wait out in the cold for long.
you don’t smile either.
well, the corners of your mouth do
move upwards from
time to time,
sometimes I can catch it.
it’s a little game I like to play called
drop the act.
but you always notice me.

you’re all ears,
but you’re silent.
and I can’t feel you at all.
are you even there?

that’s the funny part,
you’ve been here since my birth
and you’ll be here till my death.

I sit on the couch in a sticky July
with the trees behind the glass
wearing my tank top and shorts,
smelling the humid air
and the hum of the refrigerator
I stick to the vinyl pillows but you watch,
effortlessly,
and I’d smile,
though you never need to catch me
doing that.
you slip through the surface like
gossamer,
but you don’t dissolve
onto the welcome mat.

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry


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