by Robert Pinsky February 11, 2008
The saying dead as a doornail is still dead as a doornail:
Whatever a doornail might be or was, long lost in the dark,
The dark, the dark—not always deepest before dawn, Pal.
Back then, passing a graveyard you might actually whistle:
No walk in the park, a black back street back in the day.
Zombie expressions, Buddy, as thin as a spare dime.
Generated by generations they still stagger the castle,
Wan, rife. Benighted or bedazed by the March of Time,
Time, time. The old saws hardly ever anymore called saws:
Kiss the cat and you kiss the fleas. And That’s the story of my life.
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