Ghosting

Ghosting 


I am of that age 
where the idea of 
haunting my own house
is not such a silly idea. 

I'll be one of those 
nowhere noises 
Cane is always barking at.

But my wife will truly 
know it’s me when 
the monthly house cleaner 
gives her back 
my lost wedding ring—
the one that slipped 
off my finger 
and could never be found
when I got cancer—  
the one I purposely dropped 
onto the living room carpet
knowing it would almost 
break the vacuum cleaner.

She will place it on the ledge 
of the bathroom sink mirror—
and in the quick flash
before her reflection 
she will catch a broken wing 
and a half halo fleeing 
the corner of the frame.  

Cane will bark 
and look up at me, 
and she 
after a long pause,
an era of standing still,
will wonder,  and-
then
decide
that the idea 
of seeing me 
again, 
isn't such 
a silly idea.