Ghosts In The Arboretum

Half of you already gone but
this is where I stay. Fingering
each and every one of you as suspects.

Your souls amount to little more than
collections of cheap knick-knacks, carnival
fare. Party favors. The voices of crickets.

Stuff that I keep hidden

in a box and will secretly arrange
to have buried with me. Entombed like a Pharaoh.

And I will hold up
a mirror
to each and every trunk to see if it is real,
and if it is, you’ll be found out

as the sky rouges over
with embarrassment.