Those Without Final Residence
roam between the bed and the closet. Whatever in life they were deprived of they try to claim as theirs. There's rarely a skeleton in a closet that doesn't want to don our clothes, get out for a romp or a stroll. We may think we see them in our dreams, walking some boulevard dressed as father, mother, mistress. But all we can really see is the broom as it sweeps things under the rug. The ghosts themselves aren't visible, at most offer glimpses, and speak, if they speak at all, in a language that only resembles ours. The bed is not a resting place for them. They are uncomfortable wherever we have found ease. Many wish to tell us this in the form of a sudden wind, or dip in temperature, to rouse us from our idle pleasantries. Some of course commute quietly, not wishing to disturb. The bed won't let them under its covers. The closet says, Lie down among the shoes and fallen hangers. It's not their fault that we sense their presences, feel their spidery traces.
