A Ghost in the Evening

A Ghost in the Evening
By JD Miller

I think I wouldn’t mind being a ghost, to some degree. 
Not a full time ghost, but maybe at night, or in the evenings, 
On holidays, maybe, or during awkward social encounters. 

I was sitting on that bridge I like, the old railroad one, 
That bisects the bike path and overhangs a creek, 
Which wasn’t meant to be there at all, I imagine–
The one with all of the bulrushes, shedding their cotton layers, 
And that lovely duck couple, and that Muskrat sometimes– 
Who I take for a bachelor–and the grasses that grow taller than me
And that gentle water that comes from who-knows-where, 
And goes nowhere at all, except right here. 

I was thinking about how I’m going to miss this bridge, 
Certain that I may not see it again for some time, if ever, 
When a family of bikers passed under me, their spokes whirring, 
All helmets buckled, and not one of them seeing me at all,
Not even my dangling feet, which I was kicking, 
Like a child might in an oversized chair, 
And I thought, how nice it might be to be a ghost. 

For one, I could cross the street just about wherever I liked, 
And really do anything just about wherever I liked, 
Barring practically nothing. I could get the best views 
Of whatever I wanted to see, listen to things
I probably wasn’t meant to hear. 
I could probably chase away the man who is standing under the bridge, 
Smoking like he owns the place, and snorting a great deal more than I wish.

And I guess I could lay claims to places that didn’t belong to me, 
Because really, what was anybody going to do about it? 
But honestly I think, if I was a ghost, even just part time, 
I think I’d still sit right here, and watch the sun go down, 
And get no reading done, even though I brought a book. 

I think I would just go walk through the grass, 
And dangle my feet off of all sorts of things, 
At least one more time.