Waiting For Eternity

Like sheets hung in a haunted house Impersonating local ghosts, The clothes of the dead, too, still hang there Nothing ever moves now, no more jostling for space No laundry or dry cleaning tabs No tailoring, or replacing lost buttons; When buttons fall off, it's like a tree falling In the forest, where there is none to hear it. Lying primly against the pleats and darts, the tucks and ruffles, The empty folds are limp, almost an accusation The fancier things are no more privileged here, Than the common working clothes Daylight and moonlight now out of reach forever, Only time and dust will fade these colors And the moths who find their way in will enjoy an occasional meal The life the garments once possessed, vicariously Has left watermarks; a stigmata upon them- That could speak of the closeness of a warm, living body Which filled and moved them, Leant to them its history: Stray tears which rolled down inside the collars, and the laughter: Coming without warning, moving the seams back and forth; A game of musical chairs no one noticed. The faint glow of the days outside, arriving and fading away, Never comes into the dark recesses of the clothes closet; Could be in another world, for all the difference it makes. Did the pants ever wish that they could run, Jump onto the funeral pyre, too? Did the shirts wish they could fold themselves forever, Into one last embrace? Did the dresses hang longer, With an elegant remorse? But no, there they remain as usual Suspended from their metal gallows The decomposition of the clothing Lasting something very near to eternity