Commuters
My body is like an urban car share.
In the morning my ghosts climb aboard.
They relish the journey without complaint.
They like it best when I have time for breakfast
and ask them how they’d like to spend the day.
They are happy to come shopping, mow the lawn,
search the internet for replacement bulbs,
sit in the corner of my classroom, pretend
to enjoy the company of my colleagues:
it’s bring-your-folks-to-work-day, forever.
They disembark at night to fly around
and scare the children (for some reason
they get a kick out of this), but I assure
people they don’t mean it. It’s just their way
to engage with the cruel comedy of death.
It’s the attention they crave, of course, and now
they are free, they like to set the town on fire.
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