Downstairs Ghost

I sit in the rocking chair.
From the stereo, soft tones
predictably caress my ears.

But the rocking chair
is the tuning fork I listen to.
It finds the frequency
of your unseen footsteps,
of your thumbs pounding
on the video game pad.
I can feel your every move
in the palm of my hand,
as it lays on the chairarm,
in my foot, sweated to the floor.

When your door slams, I jump.
When you chop, 
I feel every slice of the knife.

Your habits are closer to me
than my own,
and when you go to bed
at ten o'clock
everynight,
I mourn,
and wait for morning
and the vibration
of the shower
and the bathroom fan.

In truth, I'm no different than 
the philodendron's leaf 
fluttering in a non-existent wind,
or the microwave grill
buzzing quietly in the kitchen.

But then, 
they don't get hot.

Kathleen Hover
05/28/03