THE GHOST CLUB

It's THE GHOST CLUB
you hardly know
when you're dead

it's just
a different kind of
alive

I hang around my old shed
touch & not touch
my rusting tools

some of the other ghosts
hang out at the bandstand
but only when it rains

we call ourselves
THE GHOST CLUB
chat 'bout this 'n' that

that 'n' this
you know the little things
that make a life

we keep in touch
with the living
shadowing them

pretending to be their shadow
hidden in a sudden
slant of sun

we shout and shout but
our words are invisible
it's like living

in a parallel
dimension living
inside a snow dome

when turned up side down
the fake snow falling
mimicking the real snow

falling gently now outside
I'd love to cry
but I've forgotten how

and I don't know
if it's allowed
it's a life of sorts

somehow
I get by
( I miss my boy )

bye. . .
bye. . .
bye

*

An old negative who had never known a photo...found floating face down in the ruins of my uncle's cottage. It's impossible to tell who they were...are. But I thought they bring them back as an illustration for this poem. Long may they live even in this ghost world.