T.L. Morrisey

Thursday, September 8, 2022

"Late September" by Charles Simic

The mail truck goes down the coast
Carrying a single letter. 
At the end of a long pier 
The bored seagull lifts a leg now and then 
And forgets to put it down. 
There is a menace in the air 
Of tragedies in the making. 

Last night you thought you heard television 
In the house next door. 
You were sure it was some new 
Horror they were reporting, 
So you went out to find out. 
Barefoot, wearing just shorts. 
It was only the sea sounding weary 
After so many lifetimes 
Of pretending to be rushing off somewhere 
And never getting anywhere. 

This morning, it felt like Sunday. 
The heavens did their part 
By casting no shadow along the boardwalk 
Or the row of vacant cottages, 
Among them a small church 
With a dozen gray tombstones huddled close 
As if they, too, had the shivers.





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