the late night visitors

at night, late at night

on the other

side

of midnight

when the ghosts arrive.

when the voices

begin,

the footsteps,

the whispers, that's when

i start

to toss and turn.

i move the pillows

around

to the cold side, i

peek out the window,

raising a single slat

on the blinds.

i see the fat moon,

with a wink in his eye.

i see someone on a broom.

i hear chains rattling.

i hear

the sound of someone making

love

to no one.

i hear music.

dancing. the clink of glasses.

i hear the others that have

come and gone

from this old house.

the dead, the living.

lovers,

and friends.

i hear the door

shut as they leave,

as they

all together go out.

it's a nightly trend.