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.