The mail truck goes down the coast <br />Carrying a single letter. <br />At the end of a long pier <br />The bored seagull lifts a leg now and then <br />And forgets to put it down. <br />There is a menace in the air <br />Of tragedies in the making. <br /> <br />Last night you thought you heard television <br />In the house next door. <br />You were sure it was some new <br />Horror they were reporting, <br />So you went out to find out. <br />Barefoot, wearing just shorts. <br />It was only the sea sounding weary <br />After so many lifetimes <br />Of pretending to be rushing off somewhere <br />And never getting anywhere. <br /> <br />This morning, it felt like Sunday. <br />The heavens did their part <br />By casting no shadow along the boardwalk <br />Or the row of vacant cottages, <br />Among them a small church <br />With a dozen gray tombstones huddled close <br />As if they, too, had the shivers.<br /><br />Charles Simic<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/late-september/
