There’s a ghost in Union Square
who moves like a shadow through steam.
She does not beg, does not speak,
only glides, silent, through the shifting crowds.
She ice skates a path no one clears,
cuts through bodies like raked fog.
Her breath is cold against the riot of voices,
her sundress trailing in the filth of the afterlife city
but never touching the ground.
A street performer stops mid-song,
his fingers faltering on the strings.
A cop turns his head,
as if something flickered just beyond his sight.
A poet on a bench rubs his arms,
shivers though the night is warm.
She circles the park,
over and over and over,
never stopping,
never leaving,
never seen again.