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Charles Simic

(9 May 1938)

Eyes Fastened With Pins


How much death works,
No one knows what a long
Day he puts in. The little
Wife always alone
Ironing death's laundry.
The beautiful daughters
Setting death's supper table.
The neighbors playing
Pinochle in the backyard
Or just sitting on the steps
Drinking beer. Death,
Meanwhile, in a strange
Part of town looking for
Someone with a bad cough,
But the address somehow wrong,
Even death can't figure it out
Among all the locked doors...
And the rain beginning to fall.
Long windy night ahead.
Death with not even a newspaper
To cover his head, not even
A dime to call the one pining away,
Undressing slowly, sleepily,
And stretching naked
On death's side of the bed.

Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003

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  • Rookie Jimmy Hanson (7/5/2007 11:21:00 AM)

    just simple poetic.
    every line brings forth a different emotion
    this is one of the finest works of art i have ever come across. (Report) Reply

  • Rookie Marina Gipps (3/17/2007 7:17:00 PM)

    The wife always alone ironing death's laundry is an amazing line...I love this poem.
    Every line is amazing. (Report) Reply

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