Ghosts

The gurgle of the washing machine,
the laminate film upon my post dinner
teeth chattering as Friday reverses
itself like a retro jacket
that offers two color options
only I cannot choose;
I only have Friday night
at my disposal-


I have a plate, a fork & spoon,
and two pans to wash
and the whole night ahead.
I am only slightly cloistered.
The TV is there and another
in the living room and still
another in the family room.
And so many channels-
and nothing I want
to watch.


In the end, I will battle
between book and journal.
Read or write.
It is in this solitude
I sense the ghosts
of so many
long gone
writers.