this ghost over my shoulder keeps telling
me I’m doing this wrong, she wants sonnets
that rhyme, something frilly and witty and
that don’t tell stupid stories about my
fictional life, which she tells me is just
overcompensation for a dull, droll
existence I should be out beating streets
to overcome—even the ghosts around here
are harping on that theme: get a job, ya bum!
she blows through on every draft, casts shadows
on every page—along with her dispersions—
but then she makes offhand remarks about
the quatorzain I wrote an hour ago,
and I know her truth: she reads my every word.
David M Pitchford
4 Nov 2011