Church Circle,
This town’s marquee
Ringing bells of 300 hundred years
Opens a curtain,
Two shows a night
Coming and going
Ghosts get in free.
Going at midnight
Aging in my walking
Limping red brick to red brick
Toward the Circle’s womb.
An audience of ghosts arrive
Wind flirting with leaves
Shuffling to their seats
Guided by prisms of footlights
Caused by wet streets.
One line of poetry
To this audience of the night
Satisfies them as I take flight
Hearing their applauding rain
And breathing wind.
Exiting into Rams Head’s alley
Avoiding autograph dwellers
Seeking spare change and cigarettes.
Looking back toward West Street,
Noticing a cute brunette
Limping toward the Circle
Wondering
What the ghosts’ demand of her.
.
Categories: Life, Observations, People, Places, Poetry
elbrookman 
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