The Ghost Convention

-

I wonder

when I’m not home

if my furniture

which always appears

on the surface as

soft-hearted and suppotive

gathers to talk about me

and wonder why I never take them

to the park for a walk

or sneak them snacks

other than the occasional

rogue popcorn kernals

that parachute into

the enermy territory of cushion cracks

where they will go 

ignored and undigested

for centuries to come.

Perhaps radio voices will emerge

like Brian Lehrer

and take listener phone calls

to discuss their opinions of me

like Luis who is calling from the Bronx

who thinks I’m an asshole

and P.S. Go Yankees!

or Karen from Park Slope

whose pronoun is they

who thinks I’m really sweet

because I always cry

like I’m the lead in Dear Even Hansen

when I watch 

Tik Tok videos of 

returning soldiers getting hugged like

they’re on hiemlich maneuvers

or when children wail like the front

row at the Eras tour

when mommy and dad

give them a puppy

even it’s a chihauhau

which you know,

just keep that thing in your purse.

Maybe Siri or Alexa

debate my choice of pornography

Wait.  Did I say that outloud?

Perhaps my mattress interprets my dreams

which within seconds are always

reduced to shredded memory foam

While appliances short circuit 

when they try to justify my existence

Or maybe all the ghosts of my life

of which there are many

some born as recently as a few months ago

gather at the trade convention of me

with name tags and funny hats

to sing my favorite songs

dance in the aisles

and simply love me

because I will never let them go.

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