Ghosted

The train rattles against its tracks,
carrying me back to the town called home
with the watchful gaze of street lights
still flickering yellow. I step off—
suitcase in hand, soles sounding
ripples, wheels churning cracked tiles.

The road extends back home, friendly houses
asleep in neighboring lots—windows
hollow, familiar curtains shut, sealed away
from the world’s grit. The stone sidewalks
guard the vacant street. By the time I reach
my front door, the handle has already flaked
into pixels of dust—smearing
into scents of existence with my touch.

The rooms are sleeping as I enter—
just as I left them, dust still
draping mother’s smooth, shiny furniture
and the rivers of ragged shoes. I listen
for ghosted sounds—no footsteps scraping
through the hall while dragging me
to the dinner table. No voices
calling from the bedroom
to smile and say goodnight.

I tread down the creaking steps, sit
on the backyard bench, listening to a loop
of Mary Had a Little Lamb, children’s laughter
joyfully spiraling through the slide, hand-in-hand
with smiling strangers from the playground.
Kids chase each other through the labyrinths
of shedding oak trees, autumn dust
kicking up the leaves. Now
I loom, tracing the sandbox’s grained wood
in each groan of Victoria’s October shade.

With every touch, my hands mingle
with the memory of infinite hands
once resting here, hands that hold other hands
now, hands that rest in pockets—or hands
that cling to cracking phones on dirty beds.