Spring
—Watercolor by Claude Ponsot
EYES FASTENED WITH PINS
—Charles Simic
—Charles Simic
How much death works,
No one knows what a long
Day he puts in. The little
Wife always alone
Ironing death's laundry.
The beautiful daughters
Setting death's supper
table.
The neighbors playing
Pinochle in the backyard
Or just sitting on the
steps
Drinking beer. Death,
Meanwhile, in a strange
Part of town looking for
Someone with a bad cough,
But the address somehow
wrong,
Even death can't figure it
out
Among all the locked
doors...
And the rain beginning to
fall.
Long windy night ahead.
Death with not even a
newspaper
To cover his head, not
even
A dime to call the one
pining away,
Undressing slowly,
sleepily,
And stretching naked
On death's side of the
bed.
____________________
—Medusa