There’s a ghost stuck up my nose.

Has to be.

How else do you explain

the never ending nose hair

(just the one)

no matter how many times

I clip or pluck?

Hurts like hell,

but more painful

than that

is the mocking

laugh I hear

every time I yank

it out

only for it to grow back

twice as thick,

twice as long.

Called the exorcist

but only ended up

burning my sinuses

when I tried snorting

holy water.

Ghostbusters weren’t

much help either.

Said the boogers and the

snot were too thick

for proton packs to

beam through.

But I know the truth.

It’s the ghost,

dangling off my columella,

flinging green like a tiny Slimer.

Last week, that little ghost-hair got cliche,

got all cute,

and turned itself gray,

and then white,

as if the hair had grabbed a tiny sheet,

threw it on,

and popped out of my

flaring nostril.

BOO!

So, with a sigh

and a shrug,

I thought, What the hell.

It can stay.

Why fight it?

Just embrace it.

I’ll even give it a name.

I’ll call it my friend,

my little Casper.

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a gift from Kimberly M. Lowe during our annual Kickstarter.]