Ghost Kid

We drive through Bakersfield at night,

Riding shotgun, my headphones on.

I remove my glasses, enemy to my true sight.

Streetlights become smears and stars spin,

The horizon line blurs together, I take it all in.

I think about the kid on the swings,

Who would stare straight up at the blue sky

And whisper, “I don’t want to go to Heaven.”

An eternity in the beyond sounded dreadful,

A lifetime on Earth appeared equally bleak.

The kid would wade through the years,

Walking the world as a living ghost.

Busying themselves with school, people, and screens.

They forgave God for never giving them an answer,

They forgave themselves for not believing anymore.

One day the ghost kid, older, but just as unchanged,

Returned to the playground and greeted the swings.

Its chains well-rusted with age creaked out a reply:

“To live meaningfully each day until we die

is too much to ask of people with only one life to give.”

I put my glasses back on, everything sharpening a little too fast.

The road dips and rises, reminding me where I am.

I leave my time on those swings in the past.

Going nowhere underneath the vast night sky,

Driven to give this one life an honest try.

(places) without you by Anonymous