Eyes fastened with pins,Charles Simic

How much death works, 
No one knows what a long 
Day he puts in. The little 
Wife always alone 
Ironing death's laundry. 
The beautiful daughters 
Setting death's supper table. 
The neighbors playing 
Pinochle in the backyard 
Or just sitting on the steps 
Drinking beer. Death, 
Meanwhile, in a strange 
Part of town looking for 
Someone with a bad cough, 
But the address somehow wrong, 
Even death can't figure it out 
Among all the locked doors... 
And the rain beginning to fall. 
Long windy night ahead. 
Death with not even a newspaper 
To cover his head, not even 
A dime to call the one pining away, 
Undressing slowly, sleepily, 
And stretching naked 
On death's side of the bed.

by Charles Simic