What It’s Like To Be a Local Living in Savannah's Haunted Historic District
Pocket of sage, and cross,
Ladies and Gents, remember,
But we don’t call those shadows by name.
Might make ‘em stick around a while.
Bumps in the dark
Soon just a part,
Of the general night music.
Forgotten faces hoped
To be remembered
The bones still rest ‘neath the house, anyway
With weed, and dirt, and thistle
Walk to back rooms on your toes
Slip between the sheets like a feather
Don’t go makin’ too much noise
Those shadows might notice.
And say "hello".
Or "get out".
Or tuck in beside you.