Would you like some tea
with that milk? You’d say slyly
regarding my pale cuppa,
resting your head idly against the bookcase
searching for the storms.
My mouth would twitch,
flicking between smile and frown.
The window always opened and closed
at that point, seemingly of
its own accord
and a stack of papers would flurry in
to land by our outstretched legs.
What do we have today, then?
You’d muse, lifting a sheet
to your face. Ah, of course;
Ghost Writers. Let’s help them
find their stories, shall we?
And with that, we’d begin.