Run Harold, Run

Harold ran down the stairs, chasing his head, which bounced on each and every step. “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” Harold said, his body leaning down to try and capture his skull.

            Harold grabbed his head and scooped it under his arm. “Miles,” he shouted, “are you all right?”

            Miles hung upside down like a bat. His orange earplugs had fallen on the floor. His tail was hanging on to the ledge of the bookcase, and his hands were grasping a first edition of “To Have and Have Not.”

            “Oh bother,” Miles said, “I seem to have gotten myself in a bit of a pickle.”

            To both of their amazement, Harold’s right arm, the one free of the head, materialized, complete with a blue Oxford shirtsleeve. The hand on the arm reached out, and grabbed Miles, rescuing him from his upside predicament.

            “Thank-you,” Miles said, dusting off his shoulders.

            “Danada,” Harold said, a thin smile stretched across his face.

            “Harold, I think we need to celebrate. Your arm materialized, reached out, and held me. This is a momentous occasion.”

            Harold settled his head on his shoulders. “Would you read to me from one of your books,” Harold asked.

            Surprised, Miles stood as tall as a not so big pack rat could, and pointed to one of his favorite books of poetry. “Grab that one, old man,” Miles said. “Let’s read some riming poetry.”

            “I didn’t think you liked riming poetry,” Harold said, admiring his materialized arm.

            Miles snatched his nose to stop the eruption of harsh words (I don’t like bad riming poetry he would have said).

            Harold gingerly took the book from the shelf, set it on the reading table, and then, sat down in the rocking chair. Miles flipped through the pages, using his entire body to find one of his favorite poems, “Luke Havergal,” by Edwin Arlington Robinson. Miles began to read:

            “Go to the western gate Luke Havergal,

            There, where the vines cling crimson on the wall,

            And in the twilight wait for what will come.

            The leaves will whisper there of her, and some,

            Like flying words, will strike you as they fall;

            But go, and if you listen she will call.

            Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal-

            Luke Havergal.”

Miles looked up, excited to be reading one of his favorite poems of all time to Harold the ghost. Miles thought that perhaps they would engage in a lively discussion afterward, and discuss metaphor, symbolism, word choice, and yes, cadence and rime. Unfortunately, Harold had fallen asleep in his chair, quietly snoring. Miles rolled his eyes. Well, he thought, at least I now know how to get Harold to take a nap…