W.H. Auden's Ghost

AUDEN’S GHOST AND MORNING COFFEE

 I open your collected poems

edited it by you, ones you changed

line by line, title by title

some lived, some were erased

to the chagrin of your public,

maybe this one of many reasons

your ghost appears to me

whenever I open your book

scanning for histories

scanning for emotion,

I see you sitting in my lounge chair

pressed suit and blonde slicked back hair

An almost albino from eternity,

does everyone wear a white suit up there?

but yours is blue and brown,

you sip from your cocktail

pleasantly smiling, silent

I want your thoughts

I want answers

but you simply nod your head

and say ‘read on…’

which I do

losing myself in machines

dive bars in New York City, Brooklyn

loves that came, loves that went

slowly, sadly, violently

with World War Two looming over your February House,

you stand up, walk to the window, looking out to my city

you turn smiling again, lighting a cigarette calmly

you walk out to a foggy morning, I let you go Auden

then turn off the lights, sip my coffee, and walk out as well

to the jazz of this town, to the bars of this future without you.