Dressed in black and glum as mutton,
Tuesday's cadaver on our shoulders
as we trudge down the line of houses.
The dawn throws lanky shadows
like tripwires; like tripwires, we hang
between yesterday and tomorrow,
snagging ankles, rattling clappers
in old, old bells. A spaniel perks up,
mistaking our burden for a giant bone,
or then again, perhaps the mistake
is not his, but ours.
No comments:
Post a Comment