Port W. is too poor to have ghosts of its own
This embarrasses us; Great Neck, the next town over,
Is lousy with them. Mornings, they clog the streets
Arguing about the gold standard or playing
Ringolevio. Nights, they ride Dreadnought motorbikes
Along Middleneck Road, from Brokaw Lane
To Liberty Street, hoping to scare the livestock.
We had a ghost, once. He had no references
And looked unhealthy but he worked cheap.
He'd manifest for a few hours every night
Translucent and plucking fretfully on a mandolin
But he took sick and died on us. The ghost
Of our dead ghost -- and this makes us sore –
Shook off the dust of Port and now haunts
An iron gazebo in a Great Neck park.
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