A selection from Vagabonds and Sundries
I live in a house
filled with ghosts.
The cat sees them,
waking from a dead sleep
to stare out into the emptiness
where the demons dance, disembodied.
I used to see them,
when I was a child,
unaccustomed to being haunted.
Their presence now common,
they blend into the backdrop
of the pale white walls.
Resigned that I shall never
be rid of these dark bedfellows,
each night, I crawl into bed
with the jilted figures
of the inescapable ill memories
staring out into the black,
longing for comfort
which seems only a transient
—coming unexpectedly,
always to leave.
