The Ghosts of North Beach

In Washington Square Park
    the poetry sells
        for a dollar a page
          rough handed manuscripts
          faintly echo a beat
as recollections of martyrs, saints
    and ancient superstitions
        seep through windows, doors -- and more.

They're spread on tables
    with jagged rock paperweights
         edges flutter in a breeze
          that whispers of ghosts
           you can almost hear
a soft, kaddish howl
    over shuffled paper
        and around a corner

a swirl of leaves
    settles on the road
        the sounds of Coney Island
          pause in your mind
           as for a moment you wonder
"Are they calling me?"
    You pay your dollar
        and read another poem.