Ghosts of the Future

The ghosts of the future
walk about our house at night.
Curiously they look
through, our empty 'fridge,
under couch cushions, puzzled.

They rifle through last year's TV Guides
piled high by the fireplace,
cluck at our tax returns
kept in shoe boxes
under our dusty bed.

But when the hour strikes
the ghosts turn, and abandon
this nosey explorations.

Silently they gather.
Reverently they lay
one of their own to rest,
under the mantle clock
on a easy chair by the fire.

Gently they comb his hair
arrange his hands.
Today is the day.
The present has caught up.

With a hushness they watch him sink
into the tide of the present,
and the river of the past
leaving only stillness in its wake,
- a tick of the mantle clock,
- a crackle of the fire.

The hour strikes.
One by one they turn to depart.
Tomorrow will claim another ghost.
Only, no one knows who.
No one knows where.