Ward 12,
worked here for years.

south corridor,
I’ve walked miles along it.

Hundreds of night shifts.
Habituated, I mean, got used to it
I mean,

probably cost the marriage
but why speak of that.

Ward 12
room 9.
Mr Marner, I was young then, I was

frightened,
can admit that now.
Couldn’t the night I found him,

the on-charge wasn’t long qualified.
Asked when the cleaners started
in the morning,

his voice cracking
down the phone.

He was almost
as young as me.

Room 8, always unlucky
or am I just superstitious?

Or just accept not everything
can be explained.

First time I saw a ghost was in there,
barely recognised him without
the pain twisting his face.

Mr Galbraith.
Don’t call me Derek.

Second time was in room seven
but it’s not as if there’s only one
presence in each room,

no visiting hours either
I guess, but during the day
they stay away, too busy, maybe.

Nights, you’re on your own,
corridors lengthen, the clocks
slow down, I’ve seen it happen.

Alone with the machines
chirruping like insects, a beep’s
tone demanding attention,

turn this on, leave that off,
night shifting with sleepers’ dreams
bumping into the deceased

all around. Routine after decades.
Even the presences,
sensed more than seen,

are woven into
working nights for longer
than I thought I could endure

the grave yard shift,
hand-over at 7.00.
“All good?” they’d say.

“Not much to report,”
I’d reply if no one
had died.

The dead at my side
I kept quiet about.

Becoming more
ghostlike myself,
listening

to the walls call out my name,
passing mirrors that show
a face I don’t recognise.

The ward knows
too much to explain
so I keep deliberated pace

down corridor-lanes
that continue through walls’
apparent solidity

that will dissolve
into flimsiness, soon enough
I’ll ghost through them,

chatter with the next
night shift candidate.