Ghost River

A day like flat ginger ale
and it tastes the same: no spark,
no bubbles, barely a ghost
of its past.

I am like that, too. Today
I am a ghost of my past.
My hands don’t feel well,
my feet feel poorly,
they are just a smidgen
of ill health compared to
my memory and emotion,
of which the less said —
don’t recall the rest of the words
in that song, like all the others
running through my limp head
all the time.

A river ran through my hometown
growing up, brown foam gathered
in the corners of the banks, the water
smelled crusty and metallic. I hear
it’s better than it used to be. I hear
they have prettied up the banks. I hear
many things, many and varied things
I hear and see; I am going home soon

to see how the river has changed, to see
if it bubbles, is it flat, and what does
my memory do if it’s gone — if it has become
a ghost of itself, repeating small words
in fading light?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T