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Erin Gendron
GhostPatriotHusband
My American ghost aches
like a knotted dollar. In my black
pajamas, I drink champagne. I’m
in no condition to complete
a transaction. Like everyone
else, I’m just barely keeping
the doors open; I’m pacing,
wide-eyed, gnawing receipts.
In the world of ether, I thee wed,
you are looking cute. Sorry,
I’m so drunk. It’s really none
of my business, but that rumble
in your gut, or that tick in the tea kettle,
will burble then bubble over. If you have
a sore throat, put the money where my
mouth is. See this ugly dark tint on my
lips? Smell that newly-minted smell
that smells nothing like mint. My
American ghost floats down from the attic,
drifts up from the floorboards, paints the ring
around your white collar, asks you
to meet me under the money tree, so you
can read me your love ledger, so we can
keep playing foreclosure. Offer, counter
offer, pending signature, no interest;
yes, even a ghost has a bottom line.
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