A GHOST, A WAIF

A ghost, a waif,
An apparition of herself,
Hardly recognizable to anyone,
Shuffled about on the gravel bar
Scrounging,
As if she’d lost something in the sand.
I held my running shoes and socks
In my hand and felt gangly and awkward
As I tried to put forward a greeting
You might use in your neighborhood
As you walked by,
“Good morning”
She said nothing and continued her conversation
With herself,
Looking in the sand.
Who was she?
Was she real?
Or had I conjured her from the deep morning mists of my memory.
“When shall we meet again?”
I sat down there on a log,
Put on my shoes,
Climbed up the bank,
And jogged off.
Was my ambition in check?
Probably not.