The Ghost Club Poem by Dónall Dempsey

It's THE GHOST CLUB

you hardly know
when you're dead

it's just a different kind of
alive

I hang around
my old shed

touch & not touch
my rusting tools

some of the other ghosts
hang out at the bandstand

but only
when it rains

we call ourselves
THE GHOST CLUB

chat 'bout this 'n' that
that 'n' this

you know
the little things

that make
a life

we keep in touch
with the living

shadowing them
pretending to be their shadow

hidden in a sudden
slant of sun

on an evening

we shout and shout but
our words are invisible

it's like living
in a parallel dimension

living
inside a snow dome

when it's turned up side down
the fake snow falling

mimicking the real snow
falling gently now outside

I'd love to cry
but I've forgotten how

and I don't know
if it's allowed

it's a life
of sorts

somehow
I get by

(I miss my boy)

bye...bye...bye