What is the thing
What bothers me the most?
Relentless streams of visitors
Or the ever-present ghost,
He rattles in the closet
And hides behind the curtain,
At times, I prefer the ghost
Over visitors, that's for certain.

I can talk to the ghost
He doesn't talk back,
He tries to throw ectoplasm
But his aim is out of whack,
Although he manages to frighten
The ones who see him not,
I guess I'm some kind of emissary
The only friend he's got.

Everywhere I've worked
There has always been a ghost,
I think he's a greeter for death
Like your friendly Walmart host,
Essentially, non-threatening
Offering his invisible, twisted smile,
A member of the welcome wagon
With his own peculiar style.

There have been she-ghosts
But they bear a different role,
As experts of duplicity
They come to recognize the soul,
Do an assessment of lifetime value
The good and bad and the duration,
Flip a coin and do the numbers
For the ultimate destination.

All in all, I count my blessings
For the role I chose to play,
There are wonderful people I work with
Each and every day,
And when unending streams of visitors
Fray my nerves like overcooked toast,
I can stick my head in the housekeeping closet
And talk to my friend the ghost.