He must have known
the ghost he ran into
by the peach orchard
not far from Shiloh church.
Paul opened a spectral door
at the road junction
adjacent to what is now called
the Bloody Pond.
He waved his hand
as if to usher them in
for a cup of coffee
with cream and sugar.
The three ghosts who came through
kept an ear cocked toward
the Tennessee river
and bolted about four p.m.
for Pittsburg Landing
no matter Paul’s remonstrations
that the war was more
than one hundred and fifty years over.
Paul dug his toe into the dirt
knowing any souvenir was long gone
but kept thinking about the one ghost
without a belt or suspenders
who periodically hiked up his pants
and pushed his belly out
as if that pressing action
would hold his sky blue pants in place.
copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 