Ghost Steps
I wake up
in the middle of a space
chilled chaste, hushed dark
An eerie flush of moonlight streams
across the faucet, gleams a perturbing mock
at my uncertain sputter-stop; yet
the refrigerator hums reassuringly
enough – the stove’s clock trips in
ticks as quick as my heart’s
No, I’m not hungry or
thirsty; still, this isn’t
the wrong room
As I listen
a warm board
pops; I stiffen – oh
relax, it’s just the wooden
stairs, shifting restless in their
settling, seethe-riffling, sigh then schnock
(I know this
familiar strangeness, the way a
clenched pause haunts)
But – what
called me? Hello? Whisper, tell
why would you want me?
——
You know I love this poem. I’ve said long things about it at Lit.org. But I think the thing I love most about it is this:
It is true.
Comment by Andy Havens — December 7, 2005 @ 9:28 pm