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Different People

I am not haunted
but try to find filaments
of light that could
be ghosts against the wall 
of the old railroad hotel
where we have come to try again.

We’ve already seen the giant egg
painted by over 50 volunteers
enclosed in a sort of cage
next to an empty field
and an opera house that burned down
in 2007 which nobody has time or money
to fix.

I look at you and see your weak chin
now that you’ve shaved, and those
almond eyes that once convinced 
me I was in love.

In the morning I rise and wander
the halls of this hotel. No one
has turned the lights on yet.
I stand next to a huge window
and watch the Kansas sun seep
light on the fields, the empty storefronts,
the egg.

I find myself walking towards the egg,
my jacket too light in the cold.
When I reach it, it towers above me on
its obelisk. I get down on my knees
in its shadow, knowing if it rolled
it’d roll in an interesting way.

Nothing happens.
I come back to the dining hall,
gravy, gravy, and more gravy.
You seem mean in the morning,
but I could be wrong.
Maybe we’re both different
people now. Maybe we’ve seen too much.

Posted 10/30/19
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