Later, at home, we served
cocktails and a cold supper.
Years passed. We forgot
the mahogany funeral parlor,
the white body lying inside
stopped screaming, we forgot
the closing of the box.
Gradually, things began
to get back to normal.
Under the glow of the
steady electric light,
we put our drinks down
on the mahogany coffee table;
we pick them up. The air stirs
but the candles have lost
their meaning, and the sounds
of traffic in the street
nobody refers to.
Leave a Reply