Ghost Writer

Strange, the compulsion of the clerk
To jot each transaction for some future audit
Which, more than likely, will not come.
But, at least he knows his books are in order.

Leaving for the night, he pauses to contemplate
All the ledgers done and filed upon the shelf,
Runs a marled finger down one spine
And feels the eerie tingle of a job well done.

Well, at least done —
tho’ the doneness is not ever truly so,

For the account goes on, in theory, forever
One must, he consoles himself, be content
With the knowledge that as of today,
Even more, the moment, the account is reckoned.

So, he may home to hearth, supper, and bed
To sleep in dreamless peace the sleep
Of one humble servant good and faithful
Who has done his part to keep the record balanced.