GHOST WRITER
(A prose poem)

     
 To you on a blank December cloudy day of a sky's shape I am Bobby Kol, a ghost writer, yet

you found me not by accident but by fate.

I am not lost as a weighed down unperceived shadow as you crossed the street to greet me. You

may think I am a call boy on the telephone hot line or a go go boy motioning my hips and lips

for a night out on the town.

We take the city bus. I play alto sax for you. It has been pawned in many places,but it always 

comes back. You share my bread in my underground apartment. We do not have to speak.

I make dinner and love for us, sharing my poetry.

We are both prisoners of spiritual warfare when the red wine grows dry. There is a bright

angel forming two shades of green on your napkin.

You are a runaway also but transform time. You landscape my bed with roses. We open the

window for air and visit the statue of a famous poet in the Square.

Entering the museum the daughters are art let down for their memory of shadowy reinvention.

Every painting, classical and of Christ comes to life. He prays with us.

Degas dancers take us to a ball.

We sleep under Dali's nose.

Duchamp's let us use his fountain.

The watchmen lets us out. We realize we know no one not even each other or ourselves.