at the balance table
the dusty ones wait:
those who don't
They were lucky in stained glass,
those
They hit the typewriter harder,
they slept less
they bitched more
They died poor perhaps or one-eyed or maimed;
waiting for a liver
that does not arrive or arrives late,
the balance table has
nevertheless
the dignity of the stoic and the
tragic thing in the world

the beauty of the pile of yellow bones,
and car dust.

when the heavy and blind metal curtain falls
ghosts walk inside the bookstore
of the dead poets
of unlucky storytellers
punching with fist
cash register.