Ghost of the Maestro
I sometimes wonder which kind you
not the flaccid flapping sheet with painted eyes
nor the headless knight who wanders endlessly
through solitary castle walls.
I think of you more as the graveyard type
with tangled hair and clumps of earth
clinging to your unironed shroud
leading them all a merry Danse Macabre.
Bringing the rattling bones in right on cue
beating time as the banshees rise
their voices joined as one
in a hellish howling crescendo.
Because that’s what you’ve always done.
And it wouldn’t be like you to let
a little thing like Death
get in your way.