Joan Baez is haunting me

With a call that weaves its way

In and out of Octaves and Eras

The minor chords scatter

Then, converge here.

.

Downstairs, our tenants are light years away.

I imagine them living:

Writing compelling letters

and singing ancient melodies,

Their dirges

In a foreign tongue.

.

The only clues of their existence:

The faint smell of sautéed garlic,

The muffled sound of brothers brawling,

A woman’s voice like a frenzied gallop,

A neglected swimming pool, waiting,

And forgotten toys scattered in the garden.

.

We piece together

Fragments of dated conversations

Like an uninspired quilt, frustrated.

Poring over every mention,

Every call and connotation

Of community.

.

But up here, we walk around

Confounded-

Living in a house with ghosts.