Specters

He shut the door behind him. The room dark, not yet bathed in morning light. The keys jingle as he tosses them into the wood bowl, just inside the door. The dog like a white ghost on the couch, eyes closed, snout buried under the arm cushion, lost in dreams of buried bones, or fields and fields of leash free grassy fields, or roaming through a gargantuan bag of lamb treats. He bent, feeling the bite in the back of his hamstrings, blood rushing to his head, unties his shoes and stands, feel the pressure in his back and shoulder and neck, “it’s official, buddy – I am old” he says out loud to the now snoring creature. In his stocking feet he tries to walk quiet to the kitchen, the floor boards squeeking under every step. He hits the under counter light, sees the dirty plate and glass, and milk container and yogurt left n the counter by what feels like the other specter, who is tall and teenaged and leaves empty packages in the pantry, and tubs with no ice cream in the freezer.