New Friend

I was making a new friend,

blonde-gray, a living opal,

pellucid, also reminding me

of a green apple

napping underneath its tree,

where I have tumbled too,

being of an age, “elderly”

but undepressed, she

tall enough to change

the smoke alarm — sharing

a ripeness that we liked comparing,

bosses who couldn’t see us,

perforation by divorce,

retirement, and stairs.

One lunch that I was looking forward to,

the first thing on her mind — 

“Do you believe in the Occult?” — 

“Merline! No, I don’t think so.”

She was in an auditorium — 

her older, deader sister sat

right down beside her

with a message — a large figure

not her body but a sum — 

what did it mean? I’d thought

one of us leaned forward at the lectern

but a ghost was there, holding sway,

or forth. Well, it came true — 

she’s richer by that sum — 

and urges making sure

to be attentive to my dreams.

She knows that it will happen — 

I’m her friend, as the Occult has been so far.

I didn’t want my brother

appearing in a dream

to bring me news of unexpected

income — if only I would pray

about it first — to the God

who had my brother die

after all. And certainly not

my sister prophesying ill

on my behalf. I guess I’d stand up,

put on a mike, look out at all

the empty faces, make them

look alive, and even cheer.

Had I remembered a firsthand poltergeist,

a temptatious legend ... 

I guess I’d accept a sleek Angora bunny

in a mohair hat, or magic

like a two-dollar bill, ask for

a life my brother could have back.