Zombie

The step was wrong before the face was. A zombie crossed the yard, a generic zombie of the old grave story, shambling, grave pale, no name and no hurry. People shut what they could shut. They carried a zombie gift of that slow wrongness. It comes back in zombie playing cards that will not stack clean, in a zombie notebook with a line that drags, in a zombie postcard of the pale face and the unfinished step. Morning comes. The walk does not stop.