#ghostpoem

She brought the wrong clothes to Paris,

which wasn’t as warm as imagination.

She borrowed a sweater and a coatfrom me;

also shoes, and the heavy socks

that made them fit.  My sweater,

especially,seemed to enjoy having her wear it

in cafes, brasseries, and markets. I

explained all this to Balzac’s ghost

at the writer’s home on Rue Raynouard.

Even though I wasn’t speaking French,

Balzac understood immediately. I went

on to observe that almost everyone

almost everywhere works hard and life

slips by so quickly and then all of a sudden

you’re a ghost listening to a tourist.

Yes, yes, said Balzac’s ghost, but

tell me, what color is the sweater she

borrowed from you? Green, I said.That,

he said, is today’s crucial detail.