They come into your house in business suits at 2:14 am.
Of course you don't want to trust them,
or believe any of it.
They glance around real quick at the living
to see if any of them are good looking.
Then they explain what the options are
for the dead.
You look at the tile on the kitchen floor
and try to figure out how many total squares there are.
When they walk into the back room,
you go sit in a chair and pull the draw stings
of your hoodie real tight around your face
and stare at the "Field Guide to the Birds Of North America."
When you hear them unfolding something metal,
you start writing down everything you know.
You picture them taking off the dead's
shoes and putting them down carefully on the floor
like rose petals for a bath--it's all part
of their repertoire for romancing people to death.
You picture the toes of the shoes pointing toward
each other.
Then, you hear them pull a zipper,
and you concentrate real hard on those shoes.
The left one says Now what?
The right one says I guess we don't have to go on those hikes anymore.
The left one says I guess it just comes down to this.
In unison they say Just us shoes.
You remember every time you said you didn't have time
for a hike.
