Men of Ill Repute

The Ghost of Fellows ticks
a lighter in the stunning black of pre-dawn.
Molten orange flashes
cask stark on coal eyes
intent on the flame.
He shakes, curses and
whips the plastic torch into the pond
with a protesting plink.
Wisps of quickening breath rise
in vapor puffs to join
the purpling atmosphere.
He shivers, pops a lapel
in an attempt to turtle
into the wool of his trench.
A quick glance at a glowing wrist
shoots a itchy pang of rage
straight to the spine.
The Ghost flinches into a tremor
and bellows to the empty
above the pond
a great, frustrated snarl.

The ensuing silence
goads him like a freckled
child sticking out his tongue.

The Ghost of Fellows resigns
to the cold wood of a bench.
He caresses the mothy insides
of his pennyloafers
with gropey toes,
swishing and shifting
the soothing gravel underfoot.

Time passes behind closed eyes.

The Ghost dreams of grazing the shoulders
of swaying passengers on midday trains.
He hums a mournful fugue as the fires
burst through windows and mouths fill
with ash and sour, cottoned smoke.
In the blinding scald,
the Ghost feels the cradle
of his sister's arms for the first time
since he snuffed her out beneath
sopping terry cloth.

He wakes soft,
like breaking through a layer of cloud,
and squints at the searing crest of dawn.
Perhaps today? he muses,
lifting the dusty, layered
husk of a self off the bench.
And with a step, he fizzles out,
like butter in a pan,
leaving behind only
an oily streak and an orange lighter
bobbing among the green slime
and cigarette butts.

Haiku of the Day:

Biting rain and wind
saturates while I run blind
in the bleary night 

Today's Drawing (inspired by the word "Chouse" from MW's word of the day. It means to cheat or trick.)

Today's "365" Project (Make a life-size person out of your clothing. I made a man out of my soaking wet clothes from my night run.)
"The Sopping Man"