A Ghost, Waiting

You are sure somehow that they can see
through you. That they can see
the earth, all shaky and uncertain
beneath your feet, that they can see

you are not yet alive again,
but a ghost. waiting
for God to gather the pieces
and make you solid again, and

that they see your flailing
not as a fall from grace,
but a dance
celebrating it.

About this poem.

“You are holding up so well, considering all that is going on in your life.” someone said.

I was honest. “There’s not much of me left.” I said. “I feel like a ghost.”

The picture was taken at the Smithsonian Museum of American Art. They had this glass sculpture, and I took a picture of myself reflected in the glass, not having any idea how it would turn out. Kind of like art. Kind of like life. It might work, or it might be a disaster. But you do it anyway.

Tom