in the stone-dead hours,
after the rain has fallen, turning trod-stone
to mirror obsidian, I look across
the courtyard (which has
expanded, bloated from lonliness) and may spy, if
the light of the moon dances just right,
a lady in black reflected on the
doorway across the way.

should I open my window, I may
feel (not hear, for hers pierces ear and flesh)
along with the chilly night air, her
cry. it is no loud, as if she were
angry. it is so soft that I can barely hear her sobs
over the tick-tock of the clock or the
thump-bump of feet outside my door.

I know not why she cries, or what compels
her to maintain her woeful vigil. once I
tried to get to her. But it is such a long
way (Three flights of stairs, then a dash) to her
door that all that remained when
I got there was a chill running down my spine.

the daylight hours tell me she is just a figment
of an over-active imagination, fueled on junk
food (more of gravy, indeed!) and bad TV movies.

but at night? when the rest of the world has fled to
warmer climes, leaving only me behind?

then she is perhaps more real than I.