The Impression

The sun hits the pane at half-past four

and shows the ghost who was at the door.

A small, oily map of a Sunday afternoon

when the neighbor’s boy sang a wordless tune.

I had the spray and the rag in my grip

to clean off the smudge near the window strip.

But the house is too quiet, the air is too thin

to wipe out the proof that he let himself in.