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by Fred Chappell
One may say of Uncle John he's there,
But not that "there" is changed by this cool fact.
He's not invisible, the way that air
And metaphysics are. He'll speak and act—
As other people do—and yet he's seen
But hardly noticed, like a Confederate
Monument among excited children
Playing in the park at green twilight.
The thought has been advanced that Uncle John
Should not be counted with the human race
But rather as a separate phenomenon,
An extensive quality of physical space
Like length and width and depth, a whole dimension
Unto himself unmarked. —Contrariwise,
Some claim such blandness is his sly intention,
That he's perfected a helluva good disguise.
If you believe in spooks, then Uncle John
May fit your definition—unless you find
That he's too incorporeal for one,
Making such slight impression on the mind
That he'd be snubbed by any proper ghost.
And yet I've wondered if that's not his plan:
In mortal flesh he lives as a specter lost
So when he dies he'll come back as a man.
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