She can rest now, with all the others in her long-haunted house.
This is a small town. The funeral home is only a couple doors away. Across from it, the new-painted house with a wraparound porch and a For Sale sign.
Advice to realtors? A slogan for the skittish:
It’s just mice. Or—
The dead seldom cross the street.
And two doors down, in what was once Sheila’s house? Window dressing.
The other ghosts keep to themselves. You only notice them when you’re indoors. But Sheila? She always had a gift for flamboyance, putting on a good show, keeping people guessing. So the front window, with its leopard-print drapes tied back, has an evolving window display. Something new is added every few days. Walk by, you’ll see.
On the gate-legged table, a white bearskin throw. Balanced on top is an ornate ivory and gold telephone from the 1920s, though the dead hardly ever make calls. This morning, a cherub spray-painted gold leans against the phone. Tomorrow, she may rearrange.
That’s so Sheila.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 