No one is awake; assess
this dusty, abandoned place.
I suspect the ghosts are watching,
poems drop like shelved China,
but they lie, untouched.
The newest sit days upon the former,
before being swept out of sight.
Vandals have found the neglected walls,
scribbled colorful lists of names,
and piled their trash about.
The scornful but indolent spirits
cast chilly, soundless shadow stains,
impotent projected shame upon offenders.
We are M. (Donald) Havishim's haunted home of verse.