The Ghost Of My Mother's Lover (Poetry)

I hear him on the stairs some nights
the muffled creak of wood
I smell the tang of cheap cologne
I’d kill him if I could

This visitor’s unwelcome ghost
who haunts dark hours through
and leaves behind a pall of dread
the senses can’t undo

When living he was close to wraith
I never saw his face
just footsteps and a sickly smell
that hung about the place

Once dead I think she conjured him
perhaps against his will
to share her all-too-lonely nights
and so he visits still

I hear them laughing through the wall
the horror fills my head
with thoughts of murder — it’s enough
to make a saint see red

But who can kill what isn’t real?
Where is the exorcist
whose candle, book and holy spell
force demons to desist

and sends them screaming back to Hell
(releasing Mother, too)
purge this sad house of memories
allowing reason through? ...

I bide my time ’til morning comes
padlock my door and pray
her love’s the gypsy rover type
with no intent to stay