The ghosts of this poem
they hang out on front porches
on warm Southern nights,
float around every corner.
Pop up in the middle of a sentence
uttered by a stranger
at a convenience store
while you’re buying jerky.
They ruin your favorite tv shows,
pull on your ears
while you’re having conversations
and if you ignore them,
stick their cold noses
into private places.
At night, they prop your eyelids open
switch your mattress for a bed of nails,
change the time on your clocks.
They never warn you
being a writer means
you have to haunt
Image by LUNA RODRIGUEZ from Pixabay