by Jay Rafferty
That night we walked
the halls of the Whaley House
you butt in on the poor tour
guide’s rehearsed ramble.
Bouncing in the recreated
kitchen, you got too excited by
the execution of Yankee Jim
and tried to tell the story
yourself. Out of pity for the
outshone employee I stopped
you midstream, much to your
disappointment and you took it upon
yourself to defrock my demeanor.
You stood, back to me,
hands innocently clasped behind,
and with a cherub expression
that could keep butter cool,
you jabbed at my crotch.
I grasped your hand.
Another prod.
I took your other paw too.
But again —
poke.
Now,
unless I miscounted last I looked,
unless the teachings of Mr O’Hagan were
grossly misinformed in my biology classes,
unless a cicada tried to latch itself
to my zipper and chirp “I want to
break free” this should not
have been possible or,
at the very least, probable.
But I had counted properly,
Mr O’Hagan was a qualified instructor,
and I’ve yet to hear an insect cover Queen.
There is no other explanation.
I had been groped by a ghost.
Jay Rafferty is an uncle, an Irishman and an eejit. He?s the Social Media Manager for Sage Cigarettes Magazine and a Best of the Net Nominee. His debut chapbook Holy Things is forthcoming in early 2022 and you can read his other poems in several journals including Lights on the Horizon and Daily Drunk Magazine. When not playing games of pool he, sometimes, writes stuff. You can follow him on Twitter @Atlas_Snow.
