The Lodgers

Ghosts waggle their spectral fingers
at me, all day, every day.
Their thin smiles linger in sunlit
rooms, their empty eyes stare
at me from each mirrored surface.

At night I hear their faint
shufflings under attic eaves,
their mouse-squeaks in the cellar.
On trips to the bathroom, I see
them step from walls and glide
across landings, trailing ectoplasm
in their wake. Each morning
I feel their phantom presence
at my side, their insubstantial
breath cooling my boiled egg.

I have learned to live with
my ghosts, their quirks and habits.
Sometimes I leave them tidbits –
toast, tea, light bites – which
they occasionally decline, but I think
they appreciate the gesture.
Why else would they stay?

Bill Fitzsimons

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.