Late September

　　 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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