A ghost lurks
just outside my window, pounding ethereal
fists on smudged glass that will not crack.
Hours of this pointless game fall
like the hands of a clock, ticking
ever downward. There is no longer a ruckus
only canaries chatting, a distant chainsaw whirring,
and the persistent tapping by my ear
as I rest my weary head upon the window
Now, even that woodpecker tip-tip-tap
has blown away with an estranged
wind, the ghost floating away and longing for a hazy
October night where the cool air is ripe with fright.