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Five years behind the portcullis of this

fell fort of hostelry I’ve sat. I wait:

for those who won’t, my presence, ever miss,

and those who are quite grateful I stayed late.

No “Who’s there” has once been upon my lips,

tho Hamlet’s soldiers are always with me.

No ghosts, but patrons, on their business trips,

who tell not treason, but their own story.

Is Hamlet’s story better? Did the guards

who showed him his ghast father have much more

than I do, when, upon equal regards,

a roaming layman tells me of his lore?

I wish I knew what ancient guardsmen knew.

Will those who think me ancient wish so too?