In the olden days,
carts would come around
to collect.

Nowadays,
no one cares
that the half dead roam
the crowded streets.
They’re among us.
They watch us when we sleep.

No, the dead walk
with the living.

They show up at my window
every once in awhile,
throwing rocks with
such force I think
for a moment
they might break through.
You tell me
they just want attention.

Curiously, the half dead
shrug their feeble shoulders
and go about their
half dead routines.

You turn to me
and very quietly
and quickly
your words pour from
your quick lips.

Remember you will die.