Backyard ghosts

Ghosts haunt my backyard.
The plywood and the concrete
Both try to stifle up their voice,
So they can’t be easily heard.
But they’re whispering all the time.

Ghosts haunt my backyard.
They’ve learned to cover their tracks.
They step without disturbing
The twigs and branches and blades of grass.
But somehow they’re still walking.

Ghosts haunt my forgotten history.
Static crackles on the radio, talking Morse.
Or, then again, there’s a click,
Like a door being locked from inside
Or like an emptied Colt Single Action.

Ghosts haunt my dreams as well.
Was I ever supposed to be here?
The rustle of shedding clothes,
The parting of pale, varicose thighs –
Lewd fingers slither down bellies
Into places I shouldn’t see.
Am I just imagining their sighs?

Or is there danger in their cries?
They linger muffled in the air.
The ghosts fear taking up the space,
And the narrow cracks admit them –
Last shelter of the truly lost.

Even if I could, would I hear them?
Flat screens large and small hood my eyes.
Earbuds and Bluetooth block the noise.
Blaring guns, bombs and one-liners,
Captain America and Superman.

No ghosts living here, they say.
Who am I to argue? Maybe they’re right.
Maybe I’ve chased them all away,
Or maybe until that Judgement Day
Ever onward I’ll march in ignorance.

In the backyard, amid the plywood
And the concrete… why do I still feel,
Still know they’re there? Ignoring
Them doesn’t ever seem to dull
The phantom itch behind my brain.

The ghosts are unseen and unheard,
But never truly gone.

- Matt Cooper, 26^th February, 2019