Who are these ghosts for whom I care,
Whose presence has recent been?
That when I'm here, they're always there,
So never by each other seen.

What of their lives can I ever know,
Beyond their brought with them possessions?
The little they provide and details show,
Revealed desires and coy confessions.

I to them are as a spritely sprite,
Who whilst out a magic brings.
From the enjoyment of their hotel night,
Puts straight disordered things.

A fresh start each and every eve,
As they return back from their day.
The untidiness of holiday leave,
Sudden vanished and put away.

Towels all wet and bathroom strewn,
Are then clean and folded neat.
And surfaces all messy are soon,
As when the first time guests did greet.

The bed which looked like a stormy sea,
Is once again all calm and flat.
And clearly in a rush to somewhere be,
All tidied up their this and that.

These guests I attend yet never see,
But for their imprint on a room.
Sense I a witch or wizard might be,
With whirlwind wand and broom.

We each exist in a world apart,
Both invisible throughout the day.
Though close if you see my corridor cart,
I'm the hidden servant of your stay.