Poetry

Spooktown, 3 (277.)

The skeletons in your closet, what
do they look like?
Are they standing there
like a teaching aid in a science classroom?
Are they smooshed like shut accordions,
arms and legs akimbo?
Are there pieces missing, melted away
by some long-standing
resentment or blood feud?
Do ghosts hang out
near the door of this mini graveyard,
waiting to re-inhabit their vessels?
Give ’em a hat and a coat each,
and call ’em captain.
If you let them steer your old decisions,
you might not be haunted
anymore.
Good travels to the dead,
now let us
look to the sun
and run ahead.

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