Sometimes I sit on my back porch at night
and listen to Mr. Death making his rounds.
He’s not like the coyotes in the hills;
he doesn’t sing after his work.
He’s an understated fellow.
Quiet.
Elegant, even.
But I can hear him.
He is a different animal than Mr. Dying.
Mr. Dying is a monster who brings fear, pain, regret.
He’s your miserable last night in your miserable last town.
But Mr. Death—he creeps circumspectly.
Quietly and tenderly he carries his intended
into the past—
into the long ago
where my kindergarten teacher
still makes me butter sandwiches,
thinking me scrawny.
Did you show her the proper respect?
Will you show me respect?
Even tenderness?
I’ll find out
but only after Mr. Dying has ripped me
to pieces like a dog with a Thanksgiving turkey,
and, after that, favors the world with his song.
