this is the end of a saturday night. dark as the clocks click to sunday. me alone in my house with cold cement underneath my feet. the coffee shops and bars will soon release their patrons to a stumble-home-sabbath. i'll probably be awake for a while, listening for the rattle and hiss of your aging six-cylinder, underneath the eiderdown of a long day and white noise. all the while our love is lying dead on a hospital bed. the workers have already begun. they're digging it's tiny grave beneath a willow.in the yard, behind the brick wall, at the end of our block. oh, the pity of an unattended funeral.