Frost calls shotgun

He was there again.
Waiting in the car,
just like always.
She guessed that was where he felt most comfortable.
He looked like anybody's sleepy grandpa,
with his grey tousled hair,
his green wool sweater and navy twill pants.
Some people took care of stray cats and runaways.
She took care of dead poets.
He liked turning up while she was running errands.
He said he missed songs sung during ordinary time
and the joy of everyday rituals.
The first time she heard that she laughed sarcastically
ensuring him that by hanging around with her, he was going to be up to his neck in joy.

They all missed that, every one that visited her from the great beyond.
They all missed the most mundane things: inkwells, soap, candles,
wool socks, utensils, flannel shirts, twine, keys, ants.
Wine. God yes.
Wine.
And the smell of just about everything. Were there no scents in the afterlife?
Oddly,there was never any desire for anything sexual.

She often wondered, why her?
She was under-educated, over thirty and off the radar average
Why was she now playing host to ghosts of poets past,
many of whom she suffered through in highschool.
Why her, of all people?
When she first asked her current passenger, Bob, he considered her question for a moment and answered thoughtfully,
"The reason I come here is because you can't help but take me in."
She thought she knew what he meant, but the truth was, she was only on the verge of fully understanding.

Peace ~ Rene
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