The doors bang. I wonder about spirits
In Victorian nightgowns.
Shuffling across the street from the funeral parlour
But we live alone.
The bus that passes our door itself is a phantom
The people wait in the black sea of purgatory
Soles of feet glued to pavement and bodies
Rocked by gentle waves and exiled
All whisper here and stand apart. Salutations only.
No thread to bear the beads of conversations
Speech bubbles perhaps. Can be read and not
Cast out in droplets between plump pink lips.