They Never Buy
the bannisters were cold, house dark and dreary, I was alone
no surprise because I have been in solitude since my death
ninety-six years of stark, staid, stillness, hearing no voices
I am tired of ghosting this mansion; it is not interesting
When I was alive I had friends, they were witty and charming
We used to laugh about our silly stories, stay up late and play cards
Because I was nineteen and excited about life back in the day
I never expected to die, and certainly not alone
There were others in the car, and they all three survived
I hate to be like this, but jealousy has wormed my empathy into anger
When the electricity was on, I could light the corners with my irritation
this gloomy doomy dank mausoleum has not been electrified for awhile
I hear footsteps; another ridiculous realtor with potential buyers?
We have not had one here since 1986; and this is two thousand something
Who knows? It’s not like I have a newspaper or radio any more.
I hear footsteps on the porch. I feel anticipatory hope.
The realtor is not a man; it’s a woman? Does this make sense?
Maybe this happens in modern day. I listen to her realtor talk.
She is using all the right terms “flexible, eager to sell, snapped up quickly.”
Snapped up quickly! I start to snicker.
The young bride looks up where I am sitting, eavesdropping.
“What was that?” she asks.
“What was what?” replies her husband.
A person who can hear me? I am delighted from my toes to my torso.
“Buy the house!” I yell.
She turns and runs out.
Followed closely by the others.
They never buy; I hate this.
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