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In my spirit shop on town’s end
So haunts Wilbur McPree,
An alcoholic in life, so in death follows he.
He roams the malts in search of sustenance
And when asked, so replies:
“In death I am alone; I remain ‘til my wife dies.”
His sallow face is always hopeful—
But then always in a scowl
When the newest wine he’s chosen is nevertheless foul.
For everything he reaches for, never reaches he;
His spectral spirit hand but slips
Into the liquors and never drips.
And in my spirit shop on town’s end
So haunts Wilbur McPree,
And in his hopeless afterlife—a celebrity is he.
When ought he pass the counter in a befuddled state
The people flock around
Keen to see Ol’ McPree, whose feet don’t touch the ground.
To him we are the ghosts, it seems
For as he skirts the beers
He looks up—almost suddenly—his eyes full of fears.
As he skims the whiskey, mouthing at the caps
I find myself hoping that his wife soon might die
So that the two might disappear and leave my shop and I.
But in my spirit shop on town’s end
So haunts Wilbur McPree,
And in his sober, spectral form, so he haunts me.
Comments (2 Comments)
- KershaFangs - 09/03/2009
- I rather enjoy this poem. It's a quirky tale and uses poetic license often forgotten in most poems of today's youth. The meter and rhyming scheme goes off on certain lines and there are parts that could use some touch ups... I'll give it a 4/5, unless you choose to rewrite it a tad and it flows easier and more appleasing when read aloud.
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