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John F. McCullagh

(09/28/1954 / Flushing)

Room 3312

On a hot August night
She appeared, the lost soul.
The sweltering evening
turning suddenly cold.
She was dressed in the clothes
She had worn when she died.
A bullet hole in her temple,
a handgun by her side.
A beautiful Stranger
at the foot of my bed.
A faint smell of lilac
from a specter long dead.
The Ghost didn’t speak,
At least not that I heard,
Nor could I, gripped by terror,
Utter one word.
World weary and sad
said her facial expression.
A Love gone all wrong
was my honest impression.
Then she was gone;
Not a glimmer remained.
The warm summer evening
My stateroom reclaimed.
It was cold where she died
On the steps to the beach;
Her spirit is restless
and seems never to sleep.

Oh beautiful stranger
None can say why you died
But the coroner ruled
That it was suicide.

Submitted: Saturday, September 14, 2013
Edited: Monday, September 16, 2013
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Poet's Notes about The Poem

You are staying at the hotel del Coronado on Coronado Island in room 3312 and you have received a visit from the ghostly apparition of Kate Morgan who stayed in that room for five days in November 1892 and whose body was found shot to death on the steps to the beach...

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