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All our ghosts are there
Forever on the other side
doing what ghosts do
knocking or moaning,
chain rattling,
or waiting nearly mute
nearly helpless to applaud
or warn managing nothing more
than a smile, a raised eyebrow at
our triumphant entrances
our many follies
the ghosts I like best
are the ones minding their own
business sipping tea, reading,
or napping beneath a coverlet of flowers
biding the time
on their side of the door.

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