by Nathan Logan
You will haunt me when you die.
I know because you say, “Nathan,
I'm going to haunt you when I die.”
Whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa.
First, we need to attend a party
with a piano player and coat check.
I need to tell our guests that you think
a bed sheet is not a good fashion choice
for walking around the neighborhood.
I need to write a little poem about it—one
where you do ghost stuff in a ghost raincoat.
I'll call it, “Francesca, I Had An Affair,”
and the audience will believe I am awful.
They'll wait for your disembodied voice.
They'll want to ask about your raincoat.