There is a jukebox in the corner
Where saddle shoes used to tread
Under skirts and socks with lace
Splattered with drippings from
Chocolate malts and shakes,
Where pearls would bounce
And roll across the floor.
Tile black and white—
I know it sounds trite
Like paisley on a bow tie
But patterns and bow ties
Bring order to the madness—
Also hamburgers, French fries
Ponytails and Snake Eyes.
He came to this place
Where the music was stuck—
Records displaying
Yellowed faces
Songs replaying
Grooves worn low
Weary, dull and much too slow.
Going backward
Isn’t really his thing
But there came a day
When his soul melted
Slipped through his lungs
Leaked and oozed
Puddled around the soles of his shoes.
Forward
No longer
Was an option for him—
What was he supposed to do?
Walk away, a shell of a man
Empty but for the wind
Whistling through?
He stood
Until noon traveled around him
Draped over the moon
Darkness descended,
Then fell his soul
Standing stuck
He heard the rattling of a rancid truck.
“Move aside,”
Said a man
Who smelled like Linus looks
Plus the tan lines of a garbage man,
“You’re in my way,
and what is this filth
at your feet?”
Accustomed to the dross
Of the city streets
With fetid hands the garbage man
Began to lift the spilt soul
Which was running into the ditch but,
“Wait!,”
Cried the empty man.
“That is not junk
though it lacks the glow
of gold
please leave it here
with me
it is all I have
if the truth is told.”
“All you have?”
Laughed the man
With the smell of human waste
On his hands,
“Then pick it up.”
Then came the second truth,
“I can’t.”
“I need your help,”
The wind spun around his tongue
Then played the space
Between his ribs
And his lungs
Like a concerto for weakening
Flesh and bone.
“Damn it all,”
The collector of trash replied
As he bent at the waist
To clean up the spill
That rolled down the hill
Before it crusted, caked and dried
Under the heat of the sun.
“I’ll put it in your pocket
now move along
get something to eat
there is a diner
across the street
that serves the lost
and the weak.”
And so, this is how he came
To the place echoing with the past—
The jukebox, the pearls
Where nothing was meant to last—
Fate brought him low
Then brought him here
To face the time where it all began
(Thanks to the garbage man).
“I don’t understand,”
He thought to himself
Then said it out loud
As his eyes rolled around
Searching for some logic
He could grip
Or some algorithm
He could apply to the script.
And then
Entered a ghost
With matted hair
On the sides of his head
Coming out of his ears,
A limp in his knee and
Teeth glowing green.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,”
Said the empty man
“Tough shit,”
Said the apparition
Blunt in his delivery and
Over dramatic
In his long flowing livery.
“Do you have a cigarette?”
Coughed the ghost
To which the live one replied,
“Do you always start with small talk?
I don’t mean to gawk but
your presence and general
demeanor are starting to piss me off.”
“You are here for a reason
and so am I
we need to get some things straight
before it’s too late
for you.
As you can see
it’s already too late for me.”
The beginning and the end
Sounded like a riddle
But somewhere in the middle
The living man
Recognized the voice,
“Dad?”
He squinted and then stuttered.
“No shit,”
Said the ghost and then
Once more,
“Do you have a cigarette?”
The living man
Almost fell to the floor
“Here, one of my last four.”
They sat in a booth,
The jukebox began to croon
They ordered hotdogs with ketchup
Had no forks
Cut their food with a spoon,
“I don’t mean to pry
but why have you come?”
“I met her here in 1952
we were both too young
to know what to do
so we loved and had fun
and then she had you
I thought of staying
but I couldn’t follow through.”
They sipped coke through a straw
To fill the long pause,
“Again, I wonder
why are you here?”
The ice clinked
In the ghost’s tall curvy glass,
“I know I was an ass
I feel kind of bad
I heard you needed me there
but I didn’t know—
shit—
it was hard to stay away
and hard to stay
I wanted to say . . .”
A pause.
And a tightening of the throat
Both the man and the ghost
Turned and squirmed,
“But why today?”
Asked the living son
Who wanted to run but chose to stay.
“Before I go to my final space
I was given the gift
once more
to see your face
and written there
I saw your hopelessness—
it rendered my journey motionless.”
“Is that when my soul
dripped all the way out?”
The ghost whispered back,
“That wasn’t your soul
it was fear and self-doubt
and I couldn’t help but
notice my name
on the puss that spilled out
so I used my airy powers
to stop your feet
with the little time I have left
I wanted to meet
in case my song repeats
after I’m gone.”
The air was still
Atmosphere heavy
Like before a storm
The ground felt shaky
And covered with worms
Snakes, anteaters and obese germs.
“I took a bit of you
and left too much of me
dropped you in a hole
of anonymity
no sure identity
as is given by a dad
and when you reached for me
your hand collapsed
empty
confused
your confidence slid—
but hear me now:
you are the best thing
I ever did.”
The living man
Felt a peace begin to grow
In a place he did not know
Existed before today
Above his ribs, above his lungs
Where scabs were hung
Replaced with Band-Aids.
“I didn’t know
and I have a lot of questions
but I feel your time is fleeting
so I will ask only one
why wait
so late
to have this meeting?”
“Time is made of seconds and of hours
each tick devours each tock
as we ignore the face of the clock
take for granted the breath
and selfishly hold the seasons
in vaults of the mind we keep locked
for prideful reasons.
But I tell you,
my son,
you are not
hopeless
I see your shine
and as long as you are living
there is still
time
so live
and be the you that is
free
of the weight of me
and my stupidity,
I am sorry.”
Then the ghost
He didn’t believe in
Vanished
To whence he came
But left a ray of something
Maybe hope
And the jukebox continued to play.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026 (updated)
Jill Szoo Wilson 