A Mess of Shade for Meat

Me down here, with old cow pies,
Deer scat, dead leaves, dirt, dust, flies—

Plonked in my camp chair that folds
And I can put on my back

And make it a few yards more
From the car to some scrub oaks

Or a shade pine by the side
Of a dirt road—I’m in here,

And to me I’m not the ghost,
These words—and you—are the ghosts,

And I’m a beast like the crow
That spots me and comes to look

In case I’ve dropped the goods. Nope.
No corpse here. Crows don’t eat ghosts.