Empty Bench
Ghosts are everywhere
The pulse of her heart stopped
Wraiths chattering and mixing and melding
In the invisible air
The odd number is the one
Moment lingering in the chair
Talking to a lady no longer there
Odd that even two is only ever 1 + 1
And associations carry on until the wood
Rots and there are no trees and no ice
And no air and nobody there
Only the hallowed spirits of times passed
Only the solid citizens
Who thought they would outlast plastic
But proved to be eminently biodegradable like
The empty chair
Melded like the sitter into the damp, brown clay
Around which silent ghosts coagulate and pray.