MORNING GHOST
Not afraid of cupboards
closing and opening at dawn,
peeling paint,
passe' decor,
chintz roses
torn from the back of a chair.
A stained glass window,
on the high transom,
picturing a cherub,
splintered,
eyes woven together
by a spider's web.
Butter churns by an unseen hand,
a gust of wind
flutters a pale curtain
above the water pump,
and I am at the top of the stairs.
The cat goes down below
because that sunrise spirit
has good intentions,
sleeps quietly through the night,
the cat on my left,
the ghost on my right,
who on certain mornings,
rushes downstairs to start the coffee,
both wafting through the empty house,
and me,
not dead as long as she.
@copyright/all rights reserved/2010
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