Shut off the light last night

and saw my father sitting in the chair. 

It doesn't matter that he was naked

because he had no body,

just a vague form

sitting as I would sit,

in my chair,

watching me,

pretending to obey the laws of physics

—for my benefit, I am sure. 

And it doesn't matter

that he's been dead for twenty years. 

He is an ephemera, unanchored here, in this world. 

Why he comes, I do not know, but I have my

suspicions. 

Perhaps he wants to fly with me,

to waft like gentle woodsmoke

through the crisp November darkness,

across the moon and through the stars,

to places that are not places,

to non-places which are out of time,

where we will go when I am

out of time.

Maybe such trips are considered fun

by evanescent entities like Dad,

who enjoyed crossing over so much

when they did it

that they just can't stay away

when someone they know

is about to do it. 

Maybe this should worry me.