In the vastness
of the drafty
slat wooden
house,

along the tidal
lettered
streets
of Gearhart;

Snapping images
with waning
filtered light
inside the darkness,

waiting for ghosts
to drift out of
the
shadows,

wondering if my
family's past
have to wait in line
behind
the house spirits
to announce themselves;

Asking us why
we almost
always keep a light
on

In time,
will I leave
a small energy
stamp
after I cross,
ghosting
it out
inside
degrading buildings
after waiting in line

questioning
why
the living
worry so much
and live
so little