The Car

The stranger chatted with the woman in low tone voice; the stranger of course was dead and he stared at his destiny: that useless outline the dead leave on the chair.
Birds struck the ceiling and fell into the dirty sink where all
the stories ended; embalmed old men sat behind the window glass;
the stoa was dark with the damp stores where they sold tripods
for caskets and wreaths for the glory we once dreamed, however,
those others lived in the same house; those we never see, yet
you hear them during the nights when they walk holding
the burnt lamps and sometimes we mistook their incomprehensible
gestures as ours, while the young dead servant girl, with who
we made love long ago, stretched her arm over my vigils so that
I would give her the pair of nylons I had promised her. Then
stillness and the sound of the departing car slowly faded away.

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