Ghost at the barbecue

Why do I partake of this ritual

of summer in the suburban garden?

They only see me dimly, if at all.

I hear their laughter like a faint echo.

Our two worlds exist in parallel
their indifference to me is not meant.
I am a ghost at the barbecue
we do not occupy the same element.

Later, someone may even dance
in a curious shuffle, across the patio.
It’s not supposed to be a séance.
They are in light; I am in shadow.

The succulent smell of meat roasting
may incite them to bolder deeds
these heroes of the conservatory –
to sing lustily like a rugby team

at a raucous wedding. I am Banquo.
As their spirits rise, mine is fading.
The scents and colours pass straight through me.

I raise my arm. I am disappearing.