My morning self -- that scoundrel! -- has accepted a fee
From my Aunt Edith to write of her and now
Expects me to honor his bargain. She died, though,
Of statistics when she was a few months old
Leaving me the merest scraps from which to work.
She made a successful career as a ghost, appearing
As an extra shadow in photographs or as a stern-looking stranger
With wings and a string-bag who has featured
In her siblings' dreams in a bewildering variety
Of supporting roles. By the time I was born
She was semi-retired and had mellowed
Into the good-humored ghost of a pretty woman
Two inches taller than her next-biggest sister,
Adding to the difference by tottering in high heels
And wearing hats, costlier and more exuberant
Than Rosie's or Sadie's or Doris' or even Anne's.
She and my morning self seem fond of each other;
I'm not sure why he doesn't write of her himself
Nor why he took money for a job
He expects me to do for him.
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