The Pedestrians

They stare through the window
as we sit down to dinner.

We are crisp paper dolls.
They are shadows.

The warm brown room gets
a little colder.

The curtains seem to grow
a little longer.

The darkness of the corners
is exalted.

The fire dwindles. The street
bathes in fog.

They still stare. They are of
various heights, all slender.

My neck prickles. If I squint,
their outlines blur.

My mother fails to repress
a loud shudder.

My father does not move,
squeezes the knife handle.

The street has countless other
scenes to spectate.

Why us, why ours, why now,
and why do they not blink?

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