A Poem in Two Parts
Photo by John Richards
The ghost in the closet
He had learned from his
Ancestors. Bohemian-like today,
Dressed in holiday finery: spats, cravat
And beret, he waited.
He gathered ungrounded concerns round his chair.
Sat preening each, plucking
To a sharp point, calmly, every jibe manicured.
No reason to press his case too soon.
His victim’s frame of mind,
The strongest tool he had
kept in wait.
He cleaned his nails,
Glossed his teeth, Brylcreemed his hair,
Till the whirlwind of fear
Spun off sparks of panic
Penetrating the door.
Antique watch, it’s dial and fob,
Clicking open and shut, again and again
Exchanging one echo of fear for another,
Guarantee — no drug or palliative would dispel
The Angst of uncertainty, of unknowing,
He took a brief nap, content he’d done his job.
Awaking, he stretched.
The nap was good
Filled with gothic banshees,
Most monstrous creatures,
Devils of all degrees and dimensions,
And his own expanded ego
Playing out in an unparalleled operatic form.
The gentle tapping on the door
Meant nothing to him.
Someone destined to run
When he ceremonially inched it open,
The more fearful than a splashy exit.
There had always been a slither in his manner
Snakelike-silences became him.
Oh, he loved his victims’
Inner gasp, their search for air,
Finding none, forcing them deeper into fear.
Like the bite of a troublesome bug
Anxiety convinced himself
He had won.
Proceeding without proof,
He made his signature sound
Few could make.
Saliva spewing over canines,
Disgusting to say the least
He was ready for battle.
But what kind of foe was this,
Rouged and cherry-lipped
She stood her ground
Her balance undisturbed.
Behind her gathered a family,
One by one they made
“It’s time to go Joe,”
Dad issued with military exactitude.
“Ride on, you old coot”
Said the Family’s Heir,
Bike spanner, in hand, at the ready.
Smooth as silk in style and carriage,
”it’s time you disappeared
You phony mirage” declared
The Darling Daughter.
Finally, the unsinkable Matriarch
With all the steely charm
only she could master, asserted,
“Out now, and ne’er darken our closet again.
Like a bat in an over-worn belfry,
Head hung bowed in defeat,
Anxiety had no recourse.
He fingered his cravat, spit on his spat,
And angled his beret.
Shrinking more with every noiseless
He made his way, out the closet,
Cross the room
To the window.
Over the sill
He was hit by fresh, wholesome breezes
Then leagues of exotic
Birds twittering, announced Anxiety’s
No match for this stronghold,
He knew he could never come again.