you look like a ghost," she says,
and then I am as she suggests,
loosely tethered to this place and time,
in melancholy hindsight recognizing
I have made only occasional notable
appearances witnessed by relatively few.
I have been exorcised from minds and
worse, hearts, infrequently
summoned by a kind memory.
"I love you, daddy," she adds.
I lean forward to kiss her goodnight,
—Martin A. Bartels