I hear the scratch of my neighbor raking leaves.

But how that that be?

They brought him, yesterday,  from the hospital 

In an ambulance to die at home.

I hesitate to test my belief in ghosts,

But curiosity gets the best of me.

I peek over the garden gate

To see his two stepsons, each with a rake,

Scratching determinedly, piling leaves.

And thru the sunlight on the pane,

I barely see my neighbor, lying

On a bed they’ve made him

By the big south picture window.

He’s looking out, smiling.

-jenn