Visitant
Out the window
darkness opened to a book
of ghost towns in the area.
The colors of day had gone
sleepy against a madness
of hours and long explanations.
I came across Runnymede,
a mile or so away. Nothing’s left
but a few photos. Hotel,
schoolhouse, a face—
maybe two. I think
I stopped at Runnymede
because it was close.
I could secretly slip
a name under the shadow
of a cracked pine door,
call a spirit out
of the crystal air where
everything stopped
breathing.
But come morning,
I was the only ghost
I found—looking
for my keys, day timer
and the nearest
mirror.
- George Bishop