Ghosts on the Sidewalk

Some day, you proclaim,
the rains will not wash me away
like ghosts on the sidewalk.

I will rise, become real,
no longer art or artifice,
so solid, so rooted

that I will laugh at storms,
I will not fade in the sun,
but become eternal.

I will not dread,
knowing I am no longer a whim,
but something unignorable

a force of nature,
imagination
become real.

There is no secret to this magic,
there is only doing,
boring, prosaic, frightening,

only showing up, and each day,
opening the cellar door and peering
into the darkness,

waiting for the monsters,
waiting for your heart to burst
in daylight

for all to see,
watching yourself bleed, not to death,
but to life.

About this poem

Based on a conversation with Jon Katz over lunch this week, about the nature of writing. Purposeful vulnerability is hard, and scary, whether it be with friends or lovers, writing or faith, or not so simple self-examination. It’s just hard.

But that’s where the good stuff comes from.

Tom