Roadie Poet: Ghost

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Last night of the tour.
I walk across the stage.
Last time.
Not that I’m nostalgic.
Or glad to be done.

It’s the footprint.
Just one.
Back near the speaker stack.

One footprint.
Like a ghost.

Hambone says it’s a
size 18.
I’m an 11.
I’ll take his word
for it.

Band’s guitar tech,
Jimmy,
left it.
So they say.

No one’s sure why.
Or how.

It’s creepy.
Jimmy,
he died one night.

Bus 18.
Same as his shoe size.
Woke up when they got to town,
found him there.
In the john.
On the floor.
Spilling into the hallway.

That night,
the footprint appeared
on the stage
over near where he’d stand,
back by the speaker stack.

Three guys from Bus 18
quit the tour.
Rumor has it
they went to rehab.

Tonight’s the last night
of the tour.
Last time to see
the footprint.

Just one.
Like a ghost.

Not that I’m nostalgic.
Or glad to be done.
But I’ll be glad
when I don’t have to see
that footprint.

Ever again.

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4 Comments

  1. nimrodiel

    September 13, 2011 4:59 pm

    Yay! I missed the roadie poet entries!

  2. Alice Audrey

    September 15, 2011 5:27 pm

    Wonderful! Though it puts me in the mood for Halloween.

  3. Kwee Lewis

    September 18, 2011 11:50 pm

    Oh! I do like a good ghost story – and this is a good one. Thank you!

  4. Old Egg

    September 23, 2011 1:23 am

    It is strange how much feeling this piece conjures up. You can feel the bewilderment at the event and the realization too that life is too damned short when you are enjoying yourself.

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