The worst is waking up in the morning
thinking nothing can ever be the same
and you have to get up and bathe
and make coffee as always
and leave for work as always
as if nothing had happened
though everything’s happened
it happened it’s over it came to its end
“it’s better this way”
and you walk down the street like a sleepwalker
bumping into pedestrians
into newspaper vendors
and you sit on a stone bench
without knowing if you’re alive or dead
it’s all the same
because death can also be
a table in a bar two dry martinis
and a pair of red lips
uttering words
that fall like guillotines