It’s Sunday morning,
and Death is doing the crossword,
there, in his flannel sweatpants-
teeth rattling with droughts
from his mug of bitterness,
(taken with a dash of cinnamon).
Raising a bony eyebrow, he suggests,
It’s not you; it’s me.
It wasn’t a long-term thing, he said,
Just a bit of fun for the evening.
He runs an icy finger up my spine, grabs his coat,
and leaves.
- 2/07/08
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