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Kathleen Kenny
Furniture

After four pints of Scrumpy
in the North Terrace
Brian tells me his room in the Annexe
is haunted by colourful ghosts.

From then on I listen for footsteps
in the passage, look for a spectacle
in scarlet, parrot-green,
kingfisher, maroon, tangerine.

But how am I to know
what sounds ghosts make:
interpret meanings malicious or benign,
intentions vague as men’s?

On the way back late that night
silver lights damp my hair, lemonade rain
fizzes off  my gabardine, a shandy-black
covering for the ladders I am laced with.

 

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