a really spooky poem

I’m resorting to a haunting to get you back.

Granted, as a ghost I’d probably be just some asshole in a bed sheet.
You’d see me, roll your eyes and go back to work. You never were
a believer, never once touched a Ouija board, and my breath on your
neck, my cold hand on your shoulder, won’t make a difference.

I could be a real 21st century woman in white,
except for a coffee stain here or there. Typical.
I can’t make tables float and I won’t drag my fingernails across your door,
but if I creep long enough, maybe
it will be enough
and you will have enough
with this game of bang and what was that?
(It’s just me. I couldn’t see the fridge through this bed sheet.)

Truth is, you’re a lot scarier than me, ‘cause if
my head’s a haunted house, you’re the nasty spirit
and I’m hoping I can scare you back
It’s only fair if we share the goose bumps.

Or, if we’re both playing ghost,
we can put this sheet to better use.

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