I don't believe in ghosts. But they believe in me.I walk my life as any human was who was free.I feel the crunch of dry leaves under my feet.I take two lefts and a right. I turn around and then repeat.There are drips overhead. That plumbing needs a fix.Details enter my head. The ghosts enjoy their tricks.Many footsteps surround me. I am not jostled at all.At the hint of any contact, I would surely stumble, fall.A door. Focus now. A door handle is before my hand.I extend my arm and grip it. This entrance was pre-planned.I walk over the doorway, across an ordinary mat.A little bell rings overhead, and wakes a sleepy cat.I stand, judging it. Do the ghosts have this one too?I gather myself, walk forward. Many things I walk through.This pocket contains many perils. I bring forth, unscathed, a watch.It's ticking is uneven. The gears need check for any crack or notch.I cannot have this. The lack of regularity drives me insane.A figure (two?) agree that a faulty watch would be a shame.Given four hours, they can fix it. I sit. I observe.Carefully. Quietly. Waiting for any straight line to curve.Is it done? I only ask when I know for certain it is, yes.I apologise for my awkwardness, during the time I was watch-less.I exhale. The ticks. My ticks. Not slow. Not quick.My time. I turn. And walk. Job done. Tick tick.I don't believe in ghosts. But they believe in me.With a working watch in hand, I now walk a bit more lightly.***https://harryisapoet.blogspot.com/2018/02/ghosts.html

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