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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