They’re waiting to be murdered,
Or evicted. Soon
They expect to have nothing to eat.
In the meantime, they sit.
A violent pain is coming, they think.
It will start in the heart
And climb into the mouth.
They’ll be carried off in stretchers, howling.
Tonight they watch the window
Without exchanging a word.
It has rained, and now it looks
Like it’s going to snow a little.
I see him get up to lower the shades.
If their window stays dark,
I know his hand has reached hers
Just as she was about to turn on the lights.
All three Simic poems are what great poetry can do. They are not didactic but “feeling” paintings with words. And there is not one conclusion but feelings created by words that are beyond the normal sense of words. Thanks for these. I will look up Charles Simic and read some more of his poetry.