It's surprisingly easy to dress my father's modest ghost
In a cape, a tabard and a broad-brimmed hat
He moves confidently in long boots that rise
Almost to his knee; one hand rests on the hilt
Of the sword he rightly expects to hang from his belt.
He seems not at all nonplussed at finding himself,
Nine years dead, on a snowy morning, a member
Of a squad of musketeers. The other ghosts
Are less clear, less sure of themselves
They shuffle about uneasily and mutter words
Meant to indicate they speak good French
But all they speak about is umbrellas and coffee
And the pen of my aunt's friend, dancing under the moon.
No comments:
Post a Comment