tagNon-Erotic PoetryGhost of a Chance

Ghost of a Chance


Sometimes you're dormant.
There are seasons
when you don't speak to me.

Once I imagined you
in the back seat of my car,
sitting still, holding up
your jangled spirit
with a narrow tie and lapels
and your hat set slightly askew,
shadowing your crumpled mouth.
You were silent, but your eyes
said you were lost somewhere good,
somewhere I want to be.

You're just a crazy drunken old jazzer,
dead 50-odd years, old enough
to be my long-gone grandpa,
and still you fly to my dreams
more alive than the bluesjay
in this morning's pine.

I want to love you.

I want a wayback machine
to 1943 so I can rescue you
before detention barracks
beat you to an early grave.

But you're gone,
and all I have is that tone,
the sweet ironic swing
that soars straight up
past cloudy blues to heaven,
and the ballads that dip
and weave beautiful hurt
until I cry for somewhere good
I once imagined leaving
your imaginary eyes.

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byAngeline© 11 comments/ 4459 views/ 0 favorites

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