Wigged Ghosts

When tabled candle lights flicker like the

Misty moths that flit with and glass and dish

Fall to ground in a clarion crash, a

Cymbal-ic clash of echoic sound

Travailing thick night air, a ringing call as

A sign of no recourse but to blame for

It all the portly ghost of Benjamin

Franklin, is when one has no choice but to take

Another drink.

And the drink sits on the table, a wooded

Piece of scarred flesh as thick as centuries.

And the flickering light dances in and out

Of carved grooves in the wood, etched laments of

Lover’s compelled to scratch a pocket-knifed

Remark of the heart’s commitment for the

Alcoholic haze of ages. Among it all, the

Table, light, and the din of Franklin’s toppling

Of a dish the beer sits, black as nights, heady white,

In a summer sweated chill; in a puddle

Of his own piss.

And the lady wench, resigned, game, forced to

Dress in the times for a tip, tells you it’s

One of the General’s own concoctions.

News like this will force the mind to travail

Through time and steal away to another hour

And place; to a house upon a mount where, in

Some corner desk, the elixired recipe

Written in quilled ink the colour of the

Quaff sits among

The scribbled thoughts on men and freedom and

The occasional slave bill of sale; piled

Below sweetly aged, archaic, yellowed

Parchment, a recipe for beer. But the

Heat of the moment hazes the vision and

Causes the words to seep, to melt off the

Page in an infinite black river and meet

In the moment to what is the mouth of your

Specialty brew.

Outside, cobbled streets echo the footsteps

Of modern souls. A misty fog silently

Rises and congregates, as dense as

A swarm of lethargic angels, to envelop

An antiquated street lamp whose light shivers

With the power of electric currents keeping

The fog at bay. Above it all, tiny

Lights in the sky blindly blink on a

City of brothers; infinite mothers

Of kite and key.

Oh! George, might you laugh! Might you whistle through

Wood! Would you crease the corners of your mouth,

Slap a knickered knee and throw your head back

with a snort to know we tip the girl with

Pictures of you?