Call The Exorcist Poem by Patti Masterman

Things are falling down in empty rooms
And I keep hearing movement, like
Clothing rubbing against itself

Damn it, I know she's died
In the nursing home, a couple miles away
And I told her
We were never going to be friends

I did it in every way I could
Except with words since
She never had any respect for me
She's got even less, now she's dead:

She needs to quit breathing down my neck
Casting her shadow all over everything
She was a ruinous leprechaun of the living
I think I need the Exorcist.

Is it really true the dead can hear your thoughts?