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