Once, the vacuum refused to suck up something 
under the bookcase. I swiped twice more
before bending down to discover an earring
lost for months. I figured the recovery
was the act of angels.

Swooshes are frequent throughout the house.
The stairs creak. Small items vanish, then reappear.

Butch, the notorious bruiser
of a cat, gone nearly a decade,
meets me at the door. His ghost
weights the mattress, circling my body 
seven times counterclockwise before settling in
as was his nightly habit.

Busying my cast iron at the stove, 
I could often sense a gentleman. Never more
than a suggestion of a body, a tingle 
between my shoulders, the air dense with his history.
Almost breath.

Was it the flame crackling against the skillet,
the herbs and hot oil, holding him to this place?

He seemed to prefer the end of the table
facing the front of the house
where the leaded-glass picture window
reveals the street.

I do not spook easily
but the kitchen visits grew unsettling.
I asked him to stop sneaking up on a girl.
Even the tolerant have limits.