Sometimes the ghosts in the mind
Tumble out into the house at night
Seem to occupy the dark spaces
When one cannot switch on lights
Not to disturb the sleeping humans
The slightest scrape from somewhere
Turns non-believers into now believers
Since grown-ups have to act like one
Assistance cannot be sought for
The fearful journey to the rest room
The literarily bent hark back to My Days
Where the author talks of spirits he saw
Running around his bed in a Chennai flat
Even humorists cannot lie in memoirs
The sussurus of the tree at the window
Is maybe the arboreal goblin whispering
But nature's call is an imperative that
Even the fallen archangel cannot deter
No one sees one dashing in and out
Pulling the bed sheet over the eyes
Swallowing pride and invoking the divine.
