Pot Helps pt. 16 (Things are ok as of now)

There's a spot that
might
not be there anymore tonight
where
I was reading this afternoon and
where gravity,
and my earthly mass,
made a trampled spot in the grass
where I was reading and basking and
where the smell of the waves and coast
made me think about other forms of being
like death,
maybe you call it being a ghost,
and sometimes my breath
is rapid and indicative
of someone in a life mess
but as much as I fret and pull my hair
I'm not really there
nor do I care
because one day I'll get to be a ghost,
just a memory,
like that trampled mass
of grass
I left down there near the coast.