Trish Saunders

Look up from the sidewalk, won’t you? 

It’s your ghost. No, it’s you, drifting down Belltown in the rain, careless of cracks in asphalt, fissures eager to raise a foot to trip you. You don’t remember me, but I see you many winters ago, explaining how you actually have a girlfriend “back East” and might end up marrying her, because her parents are wealthy, her father will certainly give you a job. 

That disarming smile as wasps fly out of your mouth, explaining how you’re looking for casual, something without much responsibility. All this I remember, plus the look in patient Michael’s eyes on hearing I had plans. The bitter coffee. How you loved telling the server it was bitter.   

If I could just be sure it’s you—look up from the heaving sidewalk, won’t you? Your back is bent. (Is mine?) So, you’re a ghost after all. Here’s a bus shelter, fall into it, never mind the rerouted sign, the #72 streaming by, faces all turned to the windows.