Haunted House

I was unconvinced until we moved here,
But I’m running out of explanations.
That summer night the back door swung open
By itself could have been a faulty latch.
But what about all these noontime footsteps
On the stairway, which rouse the sleeping dogs,
And which I, thinking my wife has returned
From some errand, go and investigate,
Only to find that there’s nobody there?

I don’t think it’s the man who built the house
In 1891—he died elsewhere.
I’d like to think it’s one who once worked here,
Whose diligence, or dedication to
This place, brought him or her back to make sure
Everything is still in working order.
The footsteps approached the attic Monday,
Where I sat typing. “Nobody up here
But me and the dogs!” The sound of feet stopped.

Did I feel foolish, speaking out like that?
No, not really; these comings and goings
Have gotten as familiar as the old
Plumbing that creaks, moans and sometimes backs up.
Besides, he or she considerately
Avoids anything too over-the-top.
No ectoplasmic stunts, scaring our guests,
No late-night laughter, no blood in the sinks.
That broken vase downstairs? Probably the cat.