A Liminal Space

Nobody willing to rise up from their casket,

Heads turned in slumbering, death repose... just slightly away from the mortician; and why do you cover a stiff with a blanket?

(Is he going to get cold?)

I hurry out the door, or try to make my way down the elevator at the side door, where we discuss prosaic ghosts of a past long headed into the rearview mirror; of a clock ticking, off-stage, somewhere.

(The voice booms a command and I go back into the Viewing Room...) with a buddy, I'm working, but suddenly I'm discussing with a Plain Clothes Policeman a videotape, and what they found in a documentary of Bigfoot, Mothman, and Joan Rivers feeding a puppy on a table, whose little fur white ass wiggles as she pours him milk from a saucer.

(Everything is carpeted and soft, and even the walls are lined like fur...)

Claustrophobia terror,

It could go on forever.

Is this what they call a

LIMINAL SPACE?!