Ghost

You sidle up,
half see-through —

a sideways Father Christmas
who knows how good I’ve been,

the transparent constant,
who ruthlessly alphabetizes
the contents of my underdrawers.

You sequester a present for me,
wrapped safe in a tea cozy.

I run my finger over it, 
look for skull and crossbones,
then pop the cork and sip —
my lips stain with immediacy.

“It’s the gift of anticipation,” you whisper.

tk/March 2013

Thanks to the talented R.A.D. Stainforth for reading this poem. 

Not to be Reproduced, 1937 by René Magritte

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