In the center of the house
behind a locked door 
are stairs you haven’t climbed 
in many years, maybe decades.

Now and then, you swear
there is sound up there:
someone running,
faraway music playing.

Begins and ends 
suddenly, startling you,
breaking up the monotony
of a flat June mid-afternoon.

You know you can’t
open the door and 
climb those stairs. Couldn’t
lift a foot if you tried,

and furthermore
can’t remember
where the key is.
It all leads you to wonder:

who’s up there? The family
lives elsewhere, kids long gone,
you don’t believe in ghosts
and anyway no one ever

died up there. 
If it’s all in your head
no worries except the most
obvious: what’s wrong with me?

If it’s not,
maybe you should assume
you might be causing
somebody up there

the same anxiety:
who’s down there? 
They might
wonder about
hearing snatches of

TV game shows
at top volume,
a wheelchair rolling
on old oaken floors. 

You must admit, it’s ghostly
no matter who
lives here, who doesn’t,
or who used to. It’s only surprising

that you can’t hear it
all the time. The unseen
is making such a racket
in this place it is hard

to concentrate on one thing
or another. You don’t need
to climb the stairs to see that
but you will think about it often

as you sit before the TV
and try to guess
the answers before
the celebrities do,

imagining your win
and everyone
throughout the house
applauding.