Someone Else's Ghosts The ghosts in my house are not mine I do not know them, cannot understand them As they whisper and clatter and thump along the baseboards And rustle the houseplants, and move the sugar bowl. I don't know what they want. I cannot treat them like brownies, leave them milk and cookies to appease them Or leave the honey and butter and bread on the counter Because the cats will eat the butter and bread I don't know if I've fed the ghosts. I hum to them to silence them, feel them against my cheeks So soft and so still, waiting, for the word, the motion, the moment That will settle them or point them in the direction they need to go, The words I would speak "It's all right" are not meant for their ears I don't know where their home is. Sometimes, they seem restless and frustrated and frightened Their murmurs and whispers lost in the wind whooshing under the eaves Their determination drowned out by the patter of rain on the roof They get sucked up by the vacuum cleaner, only to reemerge, dusty and sullen I don't know what they need to do. They have no anger, as they move from room to room Seeing other furniture, touching other trinkets, changing the sheets On beds that are no longer there, or sitting in chairs I don't have. They are someone else's ghosts. I don't know where my own are hiding.

all poems © 2004 v.a.watts