I once heard a 19th century ghost threw herself outta dew-sweating window
Ashamed of the 2 sailors, young n’ ready
Still under her ivory sheets

Now the drunken guide crawls upon her last breath
Where the French cobblestones smell faintly of salt-encrusted horse manure
As the tourists think, “Savannah is a beautiful place to grow up,”

A half a block away locals deepen their throat to forgetting the day
Disentangling the present where the past and future never exist
They toast to stretching moments into the night
And cake elusive existences around their lost diamond dreams.

-al.