They sense the clocks have changed
but can’t tell if an hour’s been lost or gained.
It’s a struggle to name the day of the week
Monday or Friday it’s all the same.
There isn’t a deadline they have to meet
no future appointments they need to keep.
Like insects trapped between panes of glass
the ghosts feel held between night and day.
They appear in a novel no one will read
and they can’t be bothered to turn the page.
The ghosts long to kick through falling leaves
but the seasons forget to change.
