A Ghost Story

 

Z I G G Y  D I C K S

 

 

My road is car-swollen

as the sun, a pink blister

is antennae-lanced

leaking crows to trees

House windows yawn

as half drawn curtains

mumble, a dawn chorus

of half-dreamt insults

A crossing beeps

untouched by hands  

and nobody stops

except a thin pigeon

I pass a doctor

unmasked as a skull

bin men operating

in surgical gear

A jogger scatters feathers

and I can taste sweat

as he coughs steam

my grimace tight and naked

Lurching, empty as breath

a ghost bus hisses

and averts its headlights

from my hollow face

My skin is bleached

I sidestep cold puddles

an odd shop keeper

gloveless, crosses a sign

I haunt my way to work

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Photo credit: Author


 

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