The static clings to her dress
and it is a thing without a name
that stands between us in the hall
without a shape or a face,
just a silent mass tsk, tsking, invisibly,
our way. The static clings to her dress
and the rest of our lives
is just a thing
beneath a half-drunk porch light,
between four beers, three cigarettes,
and the grave-
the static clings to her dress
and I’m the only one that sees
how she winces when she smiles,
it is a thing without a name.