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Poem

The all-too-tall set of stairs, straight up
from the front door; upset of falling,
the slipping, tumbling,  scares the fist
to hang tight the rail, take your time
descending in lack of light, except for
the landing’s chandelier. Enter

the ominous mirror - the vanity oval
swallows the queen-sized bed; nightmares
end up in another world, another time.

As we were playing cards, the painting fell
with heavy breath and breadth onto the table;
not my first fallen piece of art. This Ursuline
happening, its unseemly content, spooky…
or spooked by our united goodness.

I slept soundly, as the painting leaned
on the other side of the French doors and
the mirror haunted my sister’s sleep.

Spent by heavy limping, sweating profusely,
wandering the French Quarter, munching
beignets, relishing shrimp creole, and more.

My shadowy figure moved in the space
scaring my sister half to death, “Is that you…?”
With arms bobbing, I say, “Ooooh…”

So I scared her. We laughed. A couple days later
she had to remove my shoes and socks,
help me into bed, slide pillows under my feet.

At least I didn’t fall down the mansion stairs.
and leave, in wake, another Orleans ghost.

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