This morning you rise from the dead
again, though it’s not
your regularly scheduled appearance
I’ve gotten used to)
but I won’t say I’m shocked to see you now
through my coffee’s swirling steam.
You’ll tell me to drink while it’s still hot
and I’ll resist the urge to throw it in your face.
“What are your plans?” you want to know,
though if I said, you’d quickly turn the talk to you,
always you with your undertow of misery and complaint.
I need a ghost more terrifying than you, less witless
and dull, a spirit to lead me from the window in winter dark,
force freezing blood into my fingers, where the cruel words
If you have any comments on this poem, Steve Klepetar
would be pleased to hear from you.