I was making a new friend,
blonde-gray, a living opal,
pellucid, also reminding me
of a green apple
napping underneath its tree,
where I have tumbled too,
being of an age, “elderly”
but undepressed, she
tall enough to change
the smoke alarm — sharing
a ripeness that we liked comparing,
bosses who couldn’t see us,
perforation by divorce,
retirement, and stairs.
One lunch that I was looking forward to,
the first thing on her mind —
“Do you believe in the Occult?” —
“Merline! No, I don’t think so.”
She was in an auditorium —
her older, deader sister sat
right down beside her
with a message — a large figure
not her body but a sum —
what did it mean? I’d thought
one of us leaned forward at the lectern
but a ghost was there, holding sway,
or forth. Well, it came true —
she’s richer by that sum —
and urges making sure
to be attentive to my dreams.
She knows that it will happen —
I’m her friend, as the Occult has been so far.
I didn’t want my brother
appearing in a dream
to bring me news of unexpected
income — if only I would pray
about it first — to the God
who had my brother die
after all. And certainly not
my sister prophesying ill
on my behalf. I guess I’d stand up,
put on a mike, look out at all
the empty faces, make them
look alive, and even cheer.
Had I remembered a firsthand poltergeist,
a temptatious legend …
I guess I’d accept a sleek Angora bunny
in a mohair hat, or magic
like a two-dollar bill, ask for
a life my brother could have back.
New Friend
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