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.