Nocturnal mayhem is sure to stir up again when a certain
Halloween-season horror franchise hits theaters on Friday. Here today, though, I offer a poem that takes a polar opposite approach:
Paranormal Inactivity
Tonight I won't do the flying dishes
Or the mood lighting of random rooms.
The furniture can remain precisely arranged
And the dog's chain unrattled.
To hell with the low but baleful moaning,
All the tossing in beds and snatching of covers.
Why bother
When there's always tomorrow (and tomorrow and...)?
Time ultimately grinds the edge off the most spiteful grudge,
Turns the vastest repertoire hauntingly familiar.
Restlessness, I've realized, isn't a sustainable state;
Even the ethereal can be weighed down by lethargy.
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