skeletons

the skeletons
rattle in the hall closet.
those old
dry bones shimmy and shake
when the wind
blows,
or the house creaks.
what's done
is done. nothing you can do
about that.
ancient history,
hardly,
but still you want it gone,
tossed deep
into the past.
who hasn't made a mistake.
committed
some deed
in the throes of despair,
or desire?