A Home for A Ghost

What makes a home?
is it the new door mat,
worn from weeks of snow and rain,
but never from the weight of a shoe.
Or maybe the fireplace, 
with warm light that fills the room,
heating nothing but dust.
or could it be the ghosts?
the ones who come for lively dinners,
or the ones who stay the night,
their weightless forms scattered,
across furniture decorated with sheets,
their weeks of crashing in the rooms upstairs,
unable to sleep yet bound by the daily routine,
but no.
It must be the sounds of people,
living people,
the ones that scare away the ghosts,
the heartbeats and footsteps
as moving trucks pull up,
and spirits slip of the back,
moving on the house down the street,
where the postman just died,
and joining him in his empty rooms,
as his place turns into a stop,
along the journey of a ghost,
for a house full of ghosts,
could never be a home.