WHAT FRIGHTENS THE GHOUL

by John Grey

He knows what he is –
the shadow that clings to the edge of the grave,
the odor of rot in moonlight.

Not the loneliness –
that’s stitched into his marrow,
a given, like the hunger for sinew and bone.

Not the axes, nor the chainsaws,
the weapons of decapitation.
He’s nimble enough, 
for his neck to avoid the blade.

No, his dread is quieter.
He fears he’ll never wear
a collar of priestly cloth,
never ferry strangers through city fog
in a yellow cab,

never kiss a girl named Muffy
beneath a Fourth of July sky,
never cast a vote,
or even vape.

This is the blade
that makes a ghoul tremble in his boots.
He’ll never be human.
Instead – a smear of soot on the curb
where the children hopscotch and forget.
No collar, no cab, just the twitch
of a leaf in November wind.
That is his name.

John Grey