Poetry

Spooktown, 31 (305.)

So as I lay there, I brushed my fingers
over my pelvic bone, that piece of it
on my right side,
the one that juts out
where my abdomen meets my thigh,
and I thought to myself
“This feels really nice,”
and I started composing a poem right there,
some fanciful lines like
I want someone to caress my bones
and take them in like the grave,
and that’s where the poetic thoughts stopped,
I just knew I wanted to let those lines linger
like a ghost that doesn’t know
how to finish its business,
’cause the lines are true
just like the ghost,
sitting and waiting and haunting
me,
until I’ve had enough of just dirt and stones
and I grow a new something
from my scattered bones.

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