Arizona’s Ghost

by Jac Winters

At the edge of town, she glanced my way—

Never gave it a second thought, I dare say.

A flicker of her face, through doors, through windows,

Where am I? What is this strange place?

This town bends where her shadow falls, Crooked streets hum with her name, a pulse.

I chase her scent, that exhilarating glow, My lungs burn for what I’ll never know.

“Give me something!”

I beg, boots on cracked stone, “Stop running, just a crumb before you’re gone!”

But she’s air, she’s mist—she’s gone again.

My head spins like a tilt-a-whirl, sinning with want.

Round and round, her utilities echo’s a taunt—

In fogged alleys, her laugh, sharp as cracked glass.

I turn, she’s there, then not, a cruel sleight.

This town wears her face in the gaslight. Then—her eyes.

I’m frozen by your long warm stare,

Your presence runs through me, a current, a tear.

It leaves me breathless, spent, I reach for you—

Helpless in ruin, I lay where you pass through.

Her smile, wide as the canyon so grand,

Hair gently moving, like palm tree leaves fanned,

Stirred softly by air, nary one to compare—

Rise, come out, show me, stranger,

I swear. You look like so much fun, dammit, again you’re on the run.

Stop, put out your hand—a moment with you I’d keep,

A memory for nights of loneliness when I cannot sleep.

Your shadow’s all I’d need to quiet this heart’s deep ache.

I will not stop my relentless pursuit,

For one more glance, I’d crawl, I’d mute.

A simple man in his shackles and chains,

For just one glance, in my mind her imprint remains.

Where are you now? Come out, I plead,

Your scent lingers, a ghost my hands can’t seize.

There you are—gone again, a thief of my air.

This town’s a maze,

and you’re its only prayer.