
10-14-2007, 04:16 AM
Twenty years since he fled the hellhound
in Ghostbusters, he ended up here,
mouthing a silent 'help' into the plate-glass
of this million-dollar wine house
I find myself gazing into tonight.
Inside it looks like a scream,
tuxedos juggling entrees and quaint
little suppers for squeamish girls.
The men are all Wall Street to the bone;
plums in their chins, sharkskin wallets,
steel for a spine; it's all summers
at Aspen and condos by the Park.
A silvery gramps in slacks
palms an apple plucked fresh
from the teeth of his parboiled piglet.
I think of Rick Moranis and the dog
and listen for growling subway sounds.
Watching I notice the window
is smudged by my breath; a ghostly ring
mouthing the glass from outside.
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