laundry room haunting

i sifted through a week's dirt.
this was before i had ever
broken a rib & before the ceiling
fell in for the fifth time. 
the apartment hid canaries 
in every closet. it was cracked-knuckle winter.
the curse on the super didn't work yet
& i heard his work boots as they paced
the long hallway. once, i think
these apartments might have been
glorious. remnants of an old city.
most ghosts live like this: on top of
the new staircase. kneeling 
at the machine's mouth. rationing
detergent. smell of a false 
lavender field. i looked up
following a faint sound & a little girl 
with eyes like centipedes stood
in the far corner of the room.
her face had porches & potted roses.
she covered her face with her hands.
"hello?" i asked. she shook her head.
i was not as scared as you might think.
a haunting to me is as mundane 
as a red clover. i finish the load
of laundry. lingered in the middle of
the room. smell of rotten wood 
& must. the building's guts
falling out through a leak in the ceiling.
"if you need anything, let me know,"
i told her on the off chance she was
a living girl. she still said nothing.
i left the room at a steady pace.
considered turning back to check
if she was gone but i am not an investigator.
when a haunting comes it is best
to treat them like a tree or a mailbox.
a nod to their fires & then back
to the doorknob life. in my apartment 
i sat at the kitchen table & counted 
hand prints on the ceiling.