I’m an inside solidarity ghost called Papa Joe.
I’m looking out vacant corners cross-eyed
with skeleton, eyes focused on strangers.
I pray for a PMS color other than white.
I distrust this haunted house they call mine.
Wallpaper stains images crumbling down.
My lips vibrate against the passing of time.
I’m paranoid; outside seekers give me the creeps.
When stalkers come around, I embed
and seal them in a plain envelope of their fears.
Site-seeker sad adventurers enclosed.
Their favorite holiday is October
Halloween plastered windows
black, orange, cotton candy, snicker bars,
cut-out faces scare me to death.
Wake me in the morning when all
present tense. Late fall chill,
my tongue is glued with frost
to my mouthpiece.
All is well within me, ghost Papa Joe,
ha, ha, ha, ghost—Papa Joe.