I say ghosts, but the spectators parade by
in quick and evil flourishes and flashes with
primary colors and terse hearts, perhaps haters,
but the term rips at my soul because there
are not any haters. No, there are only those
who are not comfortable in their fur, in their slinky
waistcoats, but it says so much about me that
I worry later about what they think when I know not
who they are, and I’ve noticed that some days
I am in full command, a confidence dances around
on top of my head as if I have a beautiful hat with
feathers which bend with my heart as it heats
up with the tar on Main Street, and then there
are the other days, like today, when the ghosts
float by too quickly for me to be greeted or to
greet and my heart flutters with a mind that
cannot sit on anything but fills with tears and
terrible wounds that float with a liquidy aplomb
like tomato soup.

.