Ghost Monument

Nobody stands here. Nobody stops. They file by like ants; never noticing him. He arouses no curiosity. Ever. I turn to look as I pass by, five years I have looked, but never have I seen a single person pause to look into his eyes, or read the weathered plaque.

Bronze Robert Frost, you make me sad. There on your squat, lonely pedestal in the city of your birth, amidst the cable car clatter of California Street, you make me think of quiet snowflakes and haunted New England winters and that feel so strange here, in San Francisco, which is amber to your New Hampshire Christmas gray. You have been my secret lighthouse, my ghost monument. No one knows you’re here. But together, we have been acquainted with the night. As have so many others who visit the darkness daily, sleeping there before you, on bus-stop benches, on the ground. The BART riders and bootblacks outwalk the city lights, while I walk by you whispering, But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.

o O o

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