Eternity resembles
One long Sunday afternoon.
No traffic passes; the cigar smoke
Curls in a blue cocoon.
Children, have you nothing
for our cold sakes?
No tea? No little tea cakes?
Sometimes now the rains disturb
Even our remote suburb.
There’s a dampness underground.
The dead don’t get around
Much anymore.
— from “Nostalgia and Complaint of the Grandparents”