The Janitor Ghost

When the owls are out of town his studded boots kick-up featherless hoots from struts, studs and props. He is the creak and groan of tired wood, the cough and splutter of the A/C. yet he is more; all inexplicable noises belong to him. He owns each nook and cranny rents out crawls-spaces to those that crawl. I hear him stumble bent between the rafters of starless nights, hear him wheeze through long unheeded chores. A maintenance ghost tweaking blue-collar moons grumbling as he bends over a beer belly testing pipes while dropping well-used tools. He is that unseen plumber who rattles arcane engineering still working his shift, a tinker of loose screws and shaky valves. He's night noise hard at work plugging leaks between colliding worlds.