Why not, in this frazzled world?
One way or another, all poets get around to writing about death. I’m not contemplating an early exit, but I’ve approached the subject a time or two and here’s one from The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco. Death speaks in italics, as one would expect.
Bottomless Cup
He ducked between cars,
angling across the street,
one step ahead of the bus
Hurrying, mind elsewhere,
lost in scattered thought and
felt the tug at his shoulder
Excuse me? He looked surprised
I’m Death
I beg your pardon?
Death
But I’m late, really got to run
No hurry
You can’t be serious, not now
Serious. Yes, now
Surely you have the wrong fellow
No
Sure?
Sure
Let’s talk about it first
Cup of coffee?
Yeah, coffee would be nice
They all want that
What, coffee?
To talk about it first
Well, it seems the least you could do
Cream and sugar?
Yeah, now what’s this all about
About?
Yeah, you know, why …