The Ghost in the Machine

Just transferring this poem from my primary blog, since my next poetry zine is on its way. This old rocking horse has been in the alley behind my apartment building since I moved in over a year ago, and I finally stole a moment to take its picture . . .



. . . which in turn inspired this . . .

The Ghost in the Machine

Paint flaked and fallen
like fireworks,
like breakfast cereal,
no pigment left to muddy the milk,
the specter under shed skin.
Staring into vacant eyes,
an empty saddle,
the wind rattles the cage,
the springs creek a hi-yo song
for yesterday.