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.