Ghost Writer

Ghost Writer
(c) 2020 Aaron Nathans

In the room to the left/Sits an old wooden desk
Spiral bound notebooks concealed
Closed and locked in the drawer/With those rusting awards
Pressing down on two books/With gold seals

Gleaming typing machine/Round and yellowing keys
Each letter an old dusty dart
Here it’s quiet and dim/Not a shadow of him
Not even a piece of his heart

But listen close/You can hear his lighter/Flick down the hall/Ghost writer

In this New England town/Seen him walking around
At the store, or the school, or the bank
Of the creek, killing time/He casts an old sorry line
His bucket as bare as his tank

The townspeople know/They should never approach
They don’t smile, they don’t ask, they don’t tell
When the visitors come/questions like loaded guns
They just shake their heads and wish them well

‘Cause the more you push/He goes tighter/This is home/Ghost writer

Yes, he’s climbed the mountain/And he’s got no more to roam
Is a man not entitled/ To a little peace at home
Don’t a man have a right/To write the story of his life
The way he chooses?

Bills running high, the bank account dry
He shakes as he stands in the door
Now he sits in the chair, the blank page laying there
And he shuffles his feet on the floor

He looks to the skies/And he closes his eyes
As he waits for the words to appear
He hears them and then, he puts down his pen
And he goes to the fridge for a beer

He is G-d, the decider
His choice/Ghost writer
Ghost writer

Don’t a man have a right/to write his own life
But he thinks, then again, and he lays down his pen
And he shakes loose a
To write his own life