Death wanders a blind drunk
through the moneyed suburbs
of Torreón, México.
Don Arturo is dead, but death
cannot find him.
On his street, the row of satellite dishes
is bringing in American pay TV.
The neighborhood watches the actors speak
as if through windows, turning
alternately red then green,
but no one thinks to do a thing.
Doña Carmen knows her husband is dead
but cannot find him.
Dumb with awe, she opens every cupboard,
every drawer, trunk and closet,
opens the front, patio and basement doors,
shakes out mats, pulls out plugs,
picks up the telephone. Thrilling!
Nowhere.
(published in Persona, 1992)
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