What does it mean, this thing that happens to me every day? I can see it, yet do not see. |
THE COLLECTOR I step out in my winter coat My hood half covering my face, Its fur tickles my cheeks But I still find, Without looking around, Those coins on the sidewalk Half buried in snow. It is always the same I see them everywhere On the street, in stores In trains and buses Stepping out to eat and drink In cafes and bars, Those gleaming circles Of pennies, cents, and quarters, And sometimes a dollar or two. ‘Twas fun at first, To pick up and hoard them in my pockets To show them to friends To tell strangers about my small wealth. But now I only feel fear A strange sense of dread Because someone (I can’t remember who) Let me know that these unanticipated gains Are the eyes of the dead watching me. And so when I spot them now Shining an unspoken invitation I linger by the coins Asking myself once, twice, Often five times two Do the eyes of the dead Like what they see? Do they like what they see? Do they believe That these are the dues To be paid to Charon the boatman? He will then row me across the river That journey of no return To enter that house Where I will rest, and doubt no more. |