Attic Ghost, Eric Ashforth

Logging Road, David Carmack Lewis

Attic Ghost

When the owls are out of town
his studded boots
drub face-down diphthongs
on roof struts and props.

I hear him stumble, drunk on starry nights
charging bent between rafters,
wheezing through his chores.
A maintenance ghost, a janitor.

A blue collar finagler,
grumbling as he bends over a beer belly
dropping well-used tools.

He is that unseen plumber
who tweaks arcane engineering
in a narrow utility room.
A factotum working his shift,
a custodian of nuts and bolts,
of loose screws and
rattling valves.

A noise at night at work,
Budweiser in hand
plugging leaks
between colliding worlds.

_______________

Eric Ashforth

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