The Ghost in My Pig Sty

I thank you

For your quiet screams

I scarcely hear you



For your rare and gentle

Furtive flitting

Room to room



I have no need to lie wide eyed

Await awake

In fear the dark



The cracking on my door

Your stick

Is gone



So why still

Hover in the hall

Bouquet in hand



Localised

Somehow solemn

Maybe sitting on the tiles