The Senile Ghosts

The whiff of Pall Mall

floats across the room,

drifts in front of my eyes,

drawing a steep river bank and us 

skinny-dipping in shallow water.

The fragrant sketch revives

a hopeful evening.

Senile ghosts haven’t wised up

and crashed my Halloween party.

They thought they could change the world

but broke their wings in drunken binge

while skinny-dipping in shallow water.

The ghosts believe they run the world

because the moon agreed to swim along

in the river of missed opportunities

and misread observations,

hiding the ripples of wrinkles

below the silver rays.

The tops of maples and oaks

gleam orange and gold; 

the berserk ghosts dash down

the steep riverbank

like headless chickens.

With increasing alarm,

I open the doors and windows,

praying for a draft to carry away

the whiff of Pall Mall.

© Helen Kanevsky, 2019

Image courtesy of The Spectator