One of those days when I can’t decide
how many humps in an m, the number
of ans in banana, how Achilles
could ever overtake the tortoise, Death
and I go walking. Arm-in-arm, he with
his disarming smile, filling my ear with
foreboding and despair. Would I like to,
would I care to, step around into the shade
to share a drop of something cool and
not-so-sweet? After quaffing, after quenching,
after swapping tales of lying and of wenching,
he a bony forefinger raises:
“Now’s the time to discuss,” he hisses,
“succumbing to after-life-lust.” My jaw
drops. Lightning fractures the air.
Death with a rusty can my mouth waters.
The mind a garden of rot and food for no thought.