Rendezvous (Poetry)

The dead they hang around a lot — loiter
on corners where the mind bumps into them
unexpectedly — it is that jolt of sudden recognition
that often makes it hard to think — or breathe — or swallow
seeing those old familiar smiles in casual greeting —
passing thoughts unsettled — awkward — turn away.

In their wake they leave a grainy mental snowstorm —
swirling snapshot scenes that flutter — flap a reverie
of life’s torn posters peeling from the wall
called memory — the litter of existence
they had no room to pack when they moved on.

They are as hobos now — no other place to be
but drift along the edges — cling awhile
to anywhere familiar — listen to
the echoes of the living filter through —
those scraps that keep them constantly tuned in
to the ghost service — nostalgia’s broadcast schedule run
at random — wavelength changing — fading
into another twilight —
gone.

But still the patient dead lean timeless images —
their touchless selves always waiting for
the static crush to clear — for contact
so we can feel they’re close — believe they loiter near
on every corner of every street in town
dimensions cross — we rendezvous
by chance.