Time Out for a Poem

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 …