A Poet’s Dinner with Ghosts
The wine glass is finally empty.
It sings when tapped - a pathetic fallacy,
and another - the moon gleams in the window,
The phantoms wait in their chairs.
An old one from high school now asks,
“Where were you when I was sent to Viet Nam
and came back insane?”
I would speak. I would answer him,
but I get lost in the word, “labyrinth”.
I try again, but cannot get past
all the inflections of “myself” and “to survive”.
One who looks like my father asks,
“Did you know that day with me on the beach
when you were seven would be my last day?”
I would answer him as well, but fall
from the edge of “No” into the word, “Abyss”.
Another says, “Why couldn’t you just be with me,
in spite of everything? You left.”
I try to answer her as well, but fail again,
running from the words, “afraid” and “fool”.
The last one, one who seems familiar,
but I don’t recognize, asks, “Why didn’t you
ever say these words to us?” I finally confess,
“The moon was the only one I could say them to
Greg Gregory retired after a 30-year career in educational
media. His first love has always been language and the printed
word. He has been published in the US, Canada, and Great Britain
in publications including California Quarterly, Windsor Review,
Poetry Nottingham, Ibbetson Street Press, Avocet, and The
Aurorean. He currently lives and writes in Sacramento,
California with his wonderful wife, Rita.