One gnarled finger pointing to the place beyond
the heavens,
his eyes, wide misted globes of experience
and years under his tightened belt,
shine in reflection,
black and twinkle bounce toward me
and I drink it in,
bathed in the memory of the past,
my own two orbs flash.

‘Ghosts are real,’ he says via wizened
voice, the rough coursing of syllables
scraping on his chords
breaking my concentrated stare,
a gentle shake of the head, doubling
my recall.

‘We watch them every night,’
his hand pulls back, disappearing
into pocket as nods satisfy his
grand reveal, breath gathers
and is expelled into the cool air.

‘They lived their great long spans,
and we pass beneath their spirits,’
his cracked lips break into smile,
satisfied that his knowledge,
imparted forward through
my ears.

I nod receptively and remain
a silent partner,
my gaze skyward and
my eyes wide as allowed,
I stare at ghosts.