Musing at my bedroom window proscenium to the street scene parents in the back room snoring St. Michael's sandstones frowning at poor sally shambling shuffling from secret shadow to moonshine bottles clanking - guilty glancing bulging stout bag - liquor dancing.
Standing at our poet's corner spectators pilgrims commentators. Ectoplasmis streams rise and flare hot heaving lungs to cold dry air. They stare - prepare explanations poltergeist premeditations.
As a youngster, I witnessed these events (somewhat embroidered) from my bedroom window. In the 1950s they made the national news. I don't believe in poltergeists.