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.