Spectres (a work in progress)

This city is full of ghosts.
They pour out of the bars and apartment buildings on the East Side,
They seep from the walls of that condo on Beach Ave.
They are sentient,
Able to detect when I am at my most vulnerable and unaware.
They appear, and follow behind me whispering:
“Remember the query shot across a table at the Astoria?”
“Remember Charleson Park on Canada Day?”
“Remember building a rain forest in your backyard in Cedar Cottage?”
“Remember ice cream at the softball game?”
“Remember the smoking room at the Marble Arch?”
“Remember Bad Manners?”
“Remember when he got a motorcycle AFTER you broke up?”
“Remember Mexico at Library Square?”
“Remember his ultimatum at the Les Savy Fav show?”
“Remember Sade?”
“Remember his arm around your waist at Waxahatchee?”
“Remember when he flew across the country to ignore you?”
“Remember the train to Humber College?”
“Remember the last time you saw him before he died?”
“Remember MacLean park?”
“Remember when he brought his wife to dinner?”
“Remember the sweet boy from Philly who kept calling?”
“Remember Get Wizard?”
“Remember when she’d pick you up in the band van?”
“Remember the paper airplane?”
“Remember your first date at the Legion?”
“Remember the guy who stole your phone?”
“I mean, you met him at the Cambie, you kinda deserved it”
“Remember the French ex ballerina who wanted to take you to Cuba?”
“She was married to the guy who was in the Hells Angels”
“Remember the rooftop in Sunrise?”
“Remember the rooftop in Kitsilano?
“Remember Crazy Train?”
“Remember silence?”
If I could answer them,
(which I obviously can’t, come on)
I’d say:
“Silence, yes. The rest is hazy.”
And I’d be lying through my teeth,
And the worst part of all,
Is that all the ghosts are me.
