Roam

I have become a ghost
in this old house—
perhaps its quietest inhabitant.

I turn lights on and off
and most of the time,
there is no one here to notice,
no one to exclaim, to marvel
at all we do not understand.
TV channels change at my
will—no one cries foul or
questions the electricity's
motives.

I do not need to eat because
I am no longer here. The kitchen
ghost is happy to have the
abandoned room all to herself.
She rolls out her biscuits
and tries to ignore
the still earthly 21st-century
table detritus that interferes,
the kaleidoscope mess that
makes her squint and rub her
eyes with floured fingers.

There is no need for me to
take up smoking—I can smell
Mr. Pipe's smoke coming from
my daughter's room when she
is not there. Clever Mr. Pipe,
ensuring himself a name for
all eternity.

Mr. Squash has gone away,
irritated by my failed vegetable
gardens and dead lilies. He knows
what matters and no one is listening.

When I was alive, I used to smudge
charcoal on paper. I used to write down
the voices of those I did not know. People
would take these pieces of paper
from me, busy themselves with them.
That was my short experiment with
living. Quick, bright flame turned
tall, thin shadow—
taller, thinner, than in life.

This ghost has no energy left
for creation. I left behind what
I could. I do not burn to create.
I have no heat and nothing to burn.

I am not an original spectre.
I offer nothing fanciful or daring, no
dazzling extrusions of ectoplasm, nothing
that the ghosts or the living appreciate.

It's all been done. I have been done:
I weep. I descend and ascend the stairs,
endlessly. I can feel the last of my energy
pooling in my room, creating its own thumbprint,
whorls of unanswered grief. Years from now,
some woman will feel uneasy as she sets
her slippers down beside the bed.

When even the animals tire of me
I take to the streets. I roam. I haunt
other homes, dwellings where I am
least likely to be a nuisance. I seek
familiars. I want to be warm again.
You don't know what this terrible
cold is like.

If I do not show up on your doorstep,
if I do not rattle your windows,
if I do not moan in your attic,
consider yourself lucky.

Never begrudge a ghost its roaming.
It is bad luck to begrudge a ghost
its wanderings. A ghost—
like the living—
is simply doing its best.

If it finds its way into the bland light
we like to talk about in passing,
it will catch fire and burn with the
joy it no longer remembers.

Until then, the hide-and-seek
continues. Ghosts do both:
the hiding and the seeking.
There is nothing for it. Let
them play, let them play.