She fears something but can't say what.
She goes in reverse, mopping up her own tracks.
When she sleeps, it's always the same foggy night.
The dead have stopped knocking. No answer.
Their big cars hover along her block, engines
Idling, woofers pumping that relentless bass
Into the bones of her house. All night they pass
Bottles cinched in bags back and forth
Through open windows.
I want to wake her. Drag her by the gown
Down into the street where her parents
Are alive again, laughing like stoned teenagers
At some idiot joke. Look, I want to say,
The worst thing you can imagine has already
Zipped up its coat and is heading back
Up the road to wherever it came from.
–Tracy K. Smith