Cynthia Atkins

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Ghost Friend

     Gravity pulls both ways,
like a window shut from within.
I thought we shared a swing set,
to find the seat empty beside me.
Was it something I said,
something I did? —Were you just
toying with me on those posts.
Was I wrong to believe
       in unspoken contracts of trust? —
Maybe we were only second tier,
but I thought we had history.
I believed I was vetted and culled.
      I thought you liked my dog.
That loyalty meant a steady boat,
a ready mate to call in a storm—
       I see you lifting your finger
for your true friends —Did I get
bumped for getting too fat? –Did I
step on nimble toes to your truth? —
      I see you like a face in glass.
A cold silence, a white picket fence.
My son graduated, I celebrated 30 years
of marriage, my mother died.
Hurt to the core, it’s an illness now,
the why of it? —Life takes a punch.
I see you’ve lost your hair.
You’ve gotten thin. A shiver down
my spine—A void,
an empty swing in the wind.

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The Grief Behind Clouds

Is obvious, as the city
goes viral with song—
window to window
we make eye contact.
Sirens overshadow the motif
in civic unrest, statues smashed.
Parking meters of borrowed time.
But tourists go about the business
of buffering sadness, looking for
the cold table of contents
in cornerstones. The dogs recycle
our newspapers. Their people are lost
in thought, an affliction of details.

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Banner Art:
Photo by Todd Trapani, Unsplash, 2018