I died and I tried haunting Massachusetts.

Had I died inexplicably, bizarrely?

I begged their pardon: No. Had I not lived

in a Gothic homestead, never trod the stairs

of turrets? I tried haunting Massachusetts.

I died and I applied in my best suit.

Ahem, they didn’t even cough. They made

that sound: ahem. Did I not have a costume?

Was my love doomed, was she a chambermaid,

an heiress? I roamed all of Massachusetts

in search of work. Was I accused unjustly

in a witch-trial? Or justly? They sat forward,

interested. Er, no. Car-accident.

They sat back. But I died in Massachusetts.

They nodded, they could see my application.

And in what areas of Massachusetts

would I be sighted if I did indeed

return? I reeled off various dear suburbs,

a seafood restaurant, a Barnes and Noble;

Fenway. In that suit? Somebody sniggered.

I died and I do not haunt Massachusetts.

You haven’t seen me. I was ushered out

politely. I was told of openings

in Illinois. I headed for South Station,

not a care in the world. Nobody stopped me.

—Glyn Maxwell