Ghosts

We are the first dead in this house Books in dysfunctional piles; debris, Tins of old paint in the garage, Airtight as the finish on bedroom doors. A density of standing air,solemn With the austerity of dried cornflowers. Sour margarine on thin grey bread, Old gruel of past weekdays, gone; Children`s laughter in a bottle, Too late, too cold, now not part of it.