Ward 12,
worked here for years.
South corridor,
walked miles along it,
I’ve done hundreds of night shifts.
Habituated, I mean, I got used to it
I mean,
probably damaged 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 duty manager barely qualified,
voice quaking, asked me when
the cleaners began work
in the morning,
he was almost
as young as me.
Getting through the nights
slippery as sleepers’ dreams.
Room 8, always unlucky,
am I sensitive? superstitious?
or merely accepting that 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.
Room 7, almost as
busy, 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, it's maybe too busy,
night shift, 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 presence,
sensed more than seen,
are woven into working nights for
longer than I thought I’d ever endure,
the Graveyard Shift,
handover at 7.00 am. ‘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 wraithlike myself,
hearing the air whisper my name,
passing mirrors that taunt me with a
crumpled face that once was mine.
The ward collides with too
many thoughts to explain
so I keep a deliberated pace
down corridor lanes that slip
through walls’ apparent solidity,
that will dissolve soon enough
inviting me to ghost
right through them,
draw close to the next
night shift incumbent.