These ghosts were beautiful people once, now

they’re fairly counted sheep; not even real. 

The long curated favorites fade. Instead,

a wounded sense of suffrage, buzzing fear,

and grand demands are all that are relayed

when spiting me you turn your head their way.

How many weeks post gifting should I ask

them what you really wanted? How long gone,

that perfectly good doll, till it became

clear – it was the ghosts were truly haunted?

A scream, near enough to startle the rich 

nobodies who'll next live here, urges we

sound those same ad hoc détentes, regarded

by that same old, red-eyed, digital clock.

   What did we, gone to seed, do to sour 

   those dozen bad apples set to spoil 

   the whole bunch, rank fruits without stone that treat

   reproduction like consumption alone?

The sallow meats, bread flocked with sentient moss, 

ripe berries reek fleeced via impassioned 

imposture leave me the plain brown measure 

of my loss: Whole potlucks down the drain like

toothpaste caps or mindlessly knocked into 

the trash and swallowed by the garbage truck.

Crimped wants misfeed while these, my shriveled nuts,

monuments to all that a grown-up male

can willingly forget, are shooting weeds,

leveled once they exceed the walkway’s ruts.