Prose Poem: My Ghost Tree.

 

I was raking up ghosts

from under my ghost tree;

they fell throughout the 

year, not just in autumn.

After filling several black

plastic bags full of inert ghosts

I threw them in the pickup to

take to the landfill.

Just my luck,

the landfill was closed for 

Memorial Day.

So I dropped them off with

Andy, the caretaker

at the local cemetery;

he grinds them up  

 for mulch.

Back home I sat under

the insubstantial shade of my ghost tree,

drinking cold buttermilk.

I began remembering my dad,

who liked cold buttermilk

and shot off the little toe

on his right foot so he 

wouldn't be drafted,

when another ghost fell off

the ghost tree at my feet.

But this one was a lively little cuss.

It sprang up and danced about,

flinging its shroud around like

a hula-hoop.

"What makes you so lively, little ghost?"

I asked it.

"Oh, I been taking ghost vitamins" it replied,

doing a somersault. 

"What're those?" I asked.

"Made from tombstone dust, bat wings,

and cypress bark" it told me, looking up at

me with a wistful smile -- as if

it might like to try to be alive again.

"Seems a shame to take you to Andy

to be ground up for mulch" I said to it 

kindly.

"Must you?" it asked meekly.

"Can't have you ghosts cluttering up

my yard, now, can I? The neighbors 

would complain" I said, avoiding its 

black hollow eyes.

Suddenly the lively little ghost

floated quickly up into the sky.

"I didn't know I could do that" 

I heard it say as it drifted out of sight.

I decided to grill a steak for

dinner that night.