The rain isn’t the only thing
that haunts Seattle
but tucked in the corner booths
spirits linger
in the scratched tabletop
communications and the faded
photographs.
It feels late in the shadows
so they clink down eternity
with a turning spoon
crashing into the sides
of glass mugs.
They are careful
not to let the past
dribble over the edge
of their mugs
because the drops
stain freshly laundered sheets.
Secrets don’t come out
no matter how much bleached
lies have been scoured in.
Poetic Trials 