I wonder sometimes about the phantoms that haunt us
When they retire
do they sit in gardens staring at flowers and feeding birds?
Do they hang their hat on a rack
when our thoughts turn to
bubbles that float toward the 5th dimension?
Are they weary or pleased when we can’t give up the ghost?
Do they have souls of their own
that creak in a corner or hide in a dark closet?
I’d pull the sheet
if I knew they were reluctant of the walk back home
Offer them a cup of tea or some lemonade to sip
while they waited for attention
I wonder if that’s why sometimes
they sleep over and tell tales in the dark against our pillows
The ride home in the rumbles of night
where it’s lonely
is bleaker than being a subconscious thought