The orderly died long ago of some disease
Which you won't find now or at least
Not living under the same name. Still,
His shadow makes the rounds of
The deserted hospital whose high ceilings
And empty beds make it attractive
To ghosts who'd otherwise be reduced
To haunting bowling alleys and billiard halls.
You can't keep echoes out of such a place;
The shadow doesn't try but softly wakes them
Disposing of the dead ones decently.
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