It's the day's ghost moving around up there, and I'm sure it's up to no good. I'll be lucky if it doesn't invite rats or raccoons to move into the attic with it. They'll have a party and I'll bang on the ceiling yelling at them to shut up. But I've got the windows open and the cool air comes in and is hastening the departure of the attic heat. The day's ghost will be sapped of its energy and the rats and raccoons will get bored and leave and everything will grow quiet. Then I'll have the house to myself again. It will be about time, and I'll say Man, I thought they'd never leave.
by Charles Simic
To find clues where there are none,
That's my job now, I said to the
Dictionary on my desk. The world beyond
My window has grown illegible,
And so has the clock on the wall.
I may strike a match to orient myself
In the meantime, there's the heart
Stopping hush as the building
Empties, the elevators stop running,
The grains of dust stay put.
Hours of quiescent sleuthing
Before the Madonna with the mop
Shuffles down the long corridor
Trying doorknobs, turning mine.
That's just little old me sweating
In the customer's chair, I'll say.
Keep your nose out of it.
I'm not closing up till he breaks.