The What If Game
On the couch next to her, in a thoughtful lull,
(Her eyes—brown, warm: they were like that, indeed,
But amplified by an amiable lens:
Or friendship, that unexamined window
Which I feared to dirty with greasy doubts sown
In a dream of opposite things from
What is.) I suppose I looked far away. She
Asked me: What are you thinking of? I
Thought some and then said: What if I were just a
Ghost? What proof do you have that I am real?
Well what proof have you? Perhaps I’m a ghost too.
It’s Funny, I said. What, said she. I only thought…
Are not ghosts supposed to be see-through?
