Thursday, April 18, 2013


The ghosts take the bus into town. They board quietly. Perhaps silently. But that’s hard to believe. They collect transfer tickets. Take a second bus to my door. They arrive in the evening, these ghosts. Before bed. A few slip inside as I let the dog out. The rest as I let her back in. I feel their pull as I go up the stairs. Kiss my sleeping daughters. Keep myself awake. I almost see them around the bed as my wife climbs in. When I fade into sleep they cover me. Clench my jaw. Roll my body. I feel their chill through a scrim of sweat. By morning they’ve risen. Clouds of a grey day. A threat of rain. I’m tired. Clammy. My jaw aches. Am I getting sick? I’m awake to dreams and nightmares of the past. And questions. The ghosts aren’t talking. They hang in the air quiet as memory. Perhaps silently. But that’s hard to believe.