Tuesday, January 3, 2017


Walking down the midway my ghost
Will pause just where I used to pause
Where the cold lake winds whistle
Around Masaryk's tall memorial.
I no longer smoke but my ghost
Forgets this. Between his fingers
He'll have one of those awful cigars
That were company on certain nights
When I needed to study or needed
Not to fall asleep.Some campus guard
Will write in his pad "2 a.m. -- ghost
With a cigar, arguing with statue."

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