but stumble into the business district, deserted
on a Sunday afternoon; a maze of concrete and glass
laneways haunted by shadows, echoes of activity
a chill wind lingers on the sidewalk, hesitates at the lights

sheltered in a doorway, I watch the passing
traffic; a white car drifts towards the intersection
my wife at the wheel, our children in the back seat
my replacement by her side; a family of ghosts

I move to the kerb, approach it as though a precipice
pause at the edge, then step off, into the car’s path
but the car passes through me, its occupants staring straight ahead
their eyes fixed on a distant space, on the far side of me

with a shudder I realise; I am the ghost
my skin made of vapour, my heart of air
limbs made of mist, unable to carry me
from this realm of phantoms

I melt back into the darkening city
mingle with the other ghosts
absorbed by its shadows
its cold dead heart