The Ghost Off Main Street

Never was a ghost this solid.
You can even tap on its brick walls,
disturb its frame a little.
And its eyes are glass
and busted open.
You can scramble through the socket,
take a walk around the dusty cement floors
of its body,
run your hands along its brain's rusty machinery.
What kind of ghost is this
that couldn't scare you in a million years,
that looms so huge in daylight
behind its broken fence,
in a bed of weeds,
pockmarked by ancient loading docks.
Even at night, it's not so scary.
It's dead and it's still with us
so a phantom it must be.
Some folks stare up at it and curse.
Others wipe a tear
on behalf of forty years before.
Many worked there most of their lives.
Many lost their jobs
when the company moved south.
Much as it tries to haunt,
it lacks the spirit.