What Phantasms May Come

These ghosts are charitable enough, I think,
to give of their ephemera and remain in
the dark corners of the drab kitchens of
our apartments.

These ghosts, fragments of memories
other people have had, linger here for
reasons we can hardly fathom, but
whatever afterworld they eschew,
preferring our company, must hold
little enough allure,

Because, listening to our cyclic
conversations about working and
our predictable hobbies, the fear we
have of the way the world is going,
the anger at wounds that will never
quite heal over and be forgotten,

Listening to the clumsy way we
attempt to comfort each other, at
the love we find mute and intractable
within our own bodies, that which we
hope can save us in the end, yet quell
so often when we find it difficult to
live down the words it promulgates,
the works it calls for like the voices
of ancient gods that are not content
with simple kneeling,

These ghosts, patient souls that they
are, must worry and clank through
darkened nights on our account,
more, perhaps, than charitable with
us, their adoptive wards, who have
yet to know their own folly,

And perhaps, in other ages, we
will take their places, insubstantial
in whatever dwellings the future
people prefer, dreams that won't
quite fade, whispering words they
won't hear, causing their electronic
gadgets to come on and engage
during the sleeping cycle, always
a half-step away from touching
their reality and telling them all
we have, finally, learned.