The chilling clammy hall of the Dorchester tenement
Summoned me, welcoming my every visit .
Alluring was the whisper that echoed off the water rusted walls, 
"this is where you belong".

My ghost called for me commonly at the oddest hours, 
enthusiastically so, I complied; 
being in it's space was regal.
In veracity my ghost was miles away; 
yet in essences close enough to shake my core.

My ghost has since passed on beyond the dingy hall 
of the Dorchester domicile leaving  behind 
only the nostalgic memories of soiled floors, 
rodents running erratic, Cool embraces and a tepid farewell.
 
Hasn't cast itself upon me for sometime, that ghost of mine.
I reckon it summons another and chills some other hall.
In my sleep I'd squeeze my eyes tight 
to drudge up that whisper again--it never happend.

Brooklyn, the Dorchester flat and clammy hall all remain. 
My ghost has gone.