3am ghosts

I'm thinking about what it must be like, at 8 years old,
fearful of 3 am ghosts in the glint of night, trying
to keep at sleep, then to wake with the sound
of a madman breaking windows
a couple of stories down, cursing -

"Damn you Walt Whitman! You let them do this!
You let these folks turn sulferous and let
this footpath lead me to the desert. I was standing
on your bridge as you burnt it down!

"I dreamt that you would hold my hand as we jumped
turnstiles. Damn you, Walt Whitman, you should
be locked up here instead of me, watchign the sun get
lower in the pale horizon every day. There's glass in
my teeth because you said it'd make me sparkle.

"Damn yer eyes, and damn mine too, as I waited for
you outside the city dead-house, praying on
the corpses that go by. Each one asked for their eulogy.
We all need a few songs sung, building on each other
like the bricks that ossify our city.

"I want you to know, Walt Whitman, the branches standing
naked offer a clear view through the park. Everyone
passing by sees you kneeling, crying, lit by strips of
sunlight. Dreams can be encased in poetry, but there they
choke. You should see how deep we can breathe."

The sound wind sweeping past city blocks. Streets steam
in release and I kick through a pile of leaves and let the air
currents take them.