Ghosts like Cats

It's fifty-one degrees and I'm wearing flip-flops not thinking how cold it is
when I closed the front door behind me, setting out on a journey not mythical
or mysterious but in the dark and cold night there are ghosts that run like cats
along fence lines the chain link making their gray bodiless forms stand out white
like sheets on a pulley system clever neighborhood kids rigged waiting all night
for me to bring you a cup of coffee so they could pull the rope and watch me
start at the cat that's not a cat but a ghost run along the chain link
that separates the abandoned corner lot from all of us.

And it's impossible to run in flip-flops and silly or would appear silly to
run in front of God and all the neighbors and their hiding kids fifty-one degrees
and I'm tripping over my flip-flops in my mind knowing that if I break
stride even for a moment they'll know they've got me.