Ghost Booth

Ghost Booth

Ghost of an outlook perceived, sitting in restaurant booths

Alongside couples holding conversations entranced

My image an exact replica in every instance except for tangibility

To impact this scenario in any of the quintet of senses

Just a vagabond deceased onlooker wandering onward

Through bedtimes, meals and the struggles that

Make reality shows so popular

The ultimate voyeur without recompense

Or guilt or culpability for snooping in how we talk about each other

When we know no one is listening, the pillow-talk of record

Spinning without scratch or scent of a tracker in these woods

The phantom eternity of other people’s business like a Sunday matinee

Might as well be this table here in this diner

The granulated sugar with the coffee percolating

For the waitress to refill this cup overflowing in gratuitous refills

To slip in Ricin in this brew, breathe in the aroma

Through with this life to parade in an interminable wandering

Being able to finally get close to someone

To know them with as much emotional intimacy as I have been allotted

Craving a one sided equation bent over backwards and flogged

In the ultimate self flagellation to have all this inside me

And bin it for these oxygen-based years is a Sisyphus suffering

More arduous then the release of knowing it is simply impossible

And allowing myself the avenue to desist

This introspection, this self-analysis is debilitating

Make me psychoanalyst of the world and I can revel in my own genius

Like a mad-hat fool pontificating the hells and dreams of all I pretend to see

And never having to hold out mine like the thumb of a mangy hitchhiker

Waiting for anyone to give a fuck to pick them up ever, just let it end

If that is to be my reward