What if I were turned on by seemingly innocent words,
such as scumble, pinky, or extrapolate?
What if I maneuvered conversation in the hope
that others would pronounce these words?
Perhaps the excitement would come from the way
the other person touched them, lightly and carelessly,
with his tongue.
What if "of" were such a hot button?
Scumble of bushes.
What if there were a hidden pleasure in calling
one thing by another's name?
Worthwhile, a rod, a list, a mop top poem
cut out against sunset, chocolate pastries
in the shape of pyramids, an elderly bent figure
beneath a feathered Stetson.
Terry fears she may be risking her job
as an afterlife consultant.
Melinda is comforted by Jed when she twists her ankle trying
to evade an angry ghost.
Unanswered questions change things between booth and bone.
A string of raindrops dangling from an iron bar
reveals opportunities for clarity.
At the breakfast table, Mary's dead parents
become impatient when she counts the wad of small denomination
bills they presented her with on her birthday.