Ronan Barbour

night shifts

I hear them 
late end of the 
graveyard shift
thumping the window glass
leaves cracking outside 
under their faint steps

do they wander with purpose
these ghosts?
are the blind trails 
of purgatory
fenced in? 
the walls hidden 
the walls 
never known 

the distant howl
of the way to go
the traffic flow of the living
echoing in the long night
or echoing 
imagined 
in the lost mind

teasing sprinklers
dropping dark thoughts
like lone thick rain drops 
leering 
from my roof

I don’t think they see me
I don’t think they want me
but I think 
they think
the same question 
that calls me
awake 
this late 
in between 
days 

what was that? 
what 
was
that. . .?