Ghost Story, a Cautionary Tale

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Regular readers will be aware that my interest in ghosts and a posthumous consciousness contribute to other themes in many of my poems, especially later ones. 

Now, I have seen people put in hours (and years) of unpaid overtime in various occupations for precious little thanks.  The cost to the worker in terms of family and social life, not to mention his or her health, is immeasurable. 

It may well be a sweeping statement (a general truism all the same) but the more a worker does, the more management is likely to let him or her do until such a time as it no longer suits management, for one reason or another.

We all try to be conscientious at work, but there is such a thing as overkill…

Time is never on our side  so it is down to each and every one of us to get our priorities right; work will always be high on the list, yes, but making time for ourselves, family and friends should be our number one priority since for them, too, time is not on their side and we never know for how long we may have them in our lives. I often hear people say, 'When I retired I will...' but by then it may well be too late. Besides, not everyone makes it to retirement...

Time is, at the very least as unpredictable as it is fickle. As for any work ethos, we need to take it seriously, of course, while at the same time making sure it does not prevent us getting a (real) life.

GHOST STORY, a CAUTIONARY TALE

Over a period of years,

I could never help but notice

the slim, shadowy man

always waiting at my bus stop

never caught one

None of my business

of course, but eventually I asked

(pretending to care)

just what on earth he thought

he was doing there

He flung me a sad grin,

‘Well, no need to catch a bus,

been dead a good while...’

‘You're a ghost?’ I even managed

a wry smile

His laughter was kindly

(no cause for fear) ‘I love meeting

buses, watching faces

heading home, see lights coming on

in their eyes…’

‘I read between every line,

(the love, the strain) observe them

glance at their watches,

cursing time for its never taking

prisoners…’

‘It's all there - behind

the eyes, polite smile, creased brow;

hope, love, fears,

laughter, doubt, like a shopping bag

of groceries…’

‘It's the lonely ones

who really get to me, chasing a trail

that never ends;

so many good people, too busy even

for family and friends."

‘Rich or poor, famous

or an anonymous face in the street,

needs must…

family and friends first, the work ethic

a worthy second best…’

I asked him to read my face

with some misgiving. He chuckled.

‘No need. Who has time

for a ghost has a lot to make up for

to the living.’

I'd been working late again,

and after chatting with the ghost

I wondered all the way home

which one of us was truly dead or alive

the most

Years on, same bus stop,

(been partying, and had a skinful)

my love and I saw someone  

talking to the wall, and passionately

wished them well

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2014

 early version of this poem appears in 1st eds. Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books,2001.]