NaPoWriMo: Day eleven

You were always the kind of person to make ashtrays of glasses

Rather than smoke over a ledge or let ash fall in a designated place

A bowl

Or even a cardboard cup

Instead you let the ghosts of cigarettes gather in wine glasses.

I wonder if the ghosts that dance around your dreams

Have to wait for you to smoke

Before they get their own to drag

Leaning over your bed narrating all the noises you make in your sleep

Like they were clues to finding ghost treasure

Out in the woods

All the ghost men wear suits and old hats

Drive fifties cars through the forest and dig under headlights

They find the chest you buried when you were six

Break the lock

And shake hands over their discovery…


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