You arrive home
to this house, this brown
suburban house, made of crushed
autumn grass and old bottles.
I wonder if you'll notice that
the ghost in the chair isn't me,
but you rush out to play with
the dog, tossing indifferent
red and blue balls to the horizon.
The ghosts asks how your day was,
spreads lips to a grin, pretends
stones still can beat as hearts
Ash pile at your feet, but you
don't see your trail til
you turn, and vague memories
drift of days when a flame once
roared high in your fireplace.