by Wynn Everett
Scheduled for August,
postponed a month
scratches in hardwood
etched for years by
crooked table leg artists,
at one time concerning, now nothing
but hollow canals.
Paint from the bedroom door
last week nagging
today silent with premonition,
and this wall, naked and brazen,
quietly breathing along with
this ghost
and every previous soul
sitting on the living room floor
confused and uncertain
destined to haunt
the clearing
with other displaced September shadows.
One more look around,
(pillar of salt)
lock the door,
yes – it is foolish,
but gives everyone a final
hour of privacy and allows
this place
one last inhale.

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