Green Linden Press

Jay Hopler

A ghost floats through the hole in the wall.
Rereading Green Squall

thinking about family, money.
The ghost today isn’t who he used to be.

Blood caked into my jeans, dried dirt 
on my boots. I shuffled over red 

carpet, dripped red wine on my shirt.
There was a host there was a hostess

nibbled the most flavorful brie.
I OD’d once, curled my toes in warm mud.

There’s a ghost down the hall who lives in the wall—
again, reading Green Squall.

Life is long sentences, brief reprieve, no escape.
I’ve been sniffing amyl nitrate.