Ghosts Are Real To Me Poem by John W. McEwers

When the rain thunders and lightnings
and blown trees scratch the windows
a ghost is there.

And when the car doesn't start
until you ask it nicely
(which never would've happened with my old Toyota)
its because my Kia is haunted
with a ghost.

And those cold winds that grasp
like frozen fingers under clothes,
caressing like icy perversion,
its a ghost rubbing your belly
and chest.

Every bellow from the street below
my closed window
that sneaks through the cracks
voiceless and unintelligible
is a ghost making a wraith-racket
to keep me awake.

Sometimes when I can't find my keys,
it's because a ghost hid them
in my pocket
but you can't tell a ghost 'Hey, knock it off'
cause they already knocked off being alive.