The Ghosts

The Ghosts There are ghosts in this city Whose heads are empty as discarded cans. They pass you in the streets And perhaps a vague anger Is all they feel, born of a space In which they never could participate. They are living but inanimate, Barely managing a shuffle. You do not see them when they pass, As you do not see the poverty That gave them birth. Then, one day, something clicks And they put a pistol To your unobservant head. Conscienceless, they kill, Just juveniles who've given up on life. Your blood will spill because This is the thing that they were meant to do And they do it without motive or For reasons, seemingly unreal. When taken, by police, to some old station And shackled to a chair, they are listless, Lacking any passionate fear, Except a need to sleep. They are tired, exhausted And now, can put their head upon a desk. Irrelevant is the hell they're facing. The future lacks all substance And the present passes into unreality. It seems they will always walk unnoticed, Until their final act Makes plain a bitter fact, That all the ones that we have thrown away Will return, in dreams, to gather up their pay. Carl Estrin