Poem

The Ghost of Jack Rose

The ghost of Jack Rose
sits quietly at the bar
his pale face cast more so
by the blue light of dawn
Deeply cut wrinkles
lend his sallow features contrast
A forty of Four Roses
sits patiently beside him

Jack likes to come back
to this old haunt
on drab gray mornings
when the streets are damp
and the low clouds
fade the skyscrapers

I have to look twice
as I walk past
to know for sure
I’ve seen
the ghost of Jack Rose
looking back at me

The quiet
gives him time to think
to think long thoughts
among vacant seats,
his vacant eyes
look past the past

Too many nights
in haunts like this
when he were alive
Too many nights
in haunts like this
when he should have been living

The ghost of Jack Rose
—wasted
had wasted it all
The ghost of Jack Rose
—wasted
still wishes
for a second chance

But it doesn’t work like that
Jack Rose knows

All Jack can do
is to sit and
waste away the afterlife
doing the only thing
he knows how to do