The Living Ghost

In his grey Toyota truck

were power tools, dingy jean shorts

and a basketball,

all under a loose, tattered tarp

haphazardly held together like him,

The a man who’s a madrigal song

moving in counterpoint,

elusive, and unaccompanied,

except sometimes when he sang,

“Help! I need somebody,”with me

in the cold, dusty garage

Or when he echoed my giggles

from tickled sides and playground slides

Or when he popped like his nail gun

Completing a quick fix like magic for mom

But then he’d screech like the teakettle,

boil over in puddles,

And retreat back behind the steering wheel

To evaporate as suddenly as he appeared

in his grey Toyota truck.

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