Sunday, July 17, 2011

A close call?

Just like the buses! You wait for months between sightings of a 'poem' of mine, sometimes, and then two come along in as many weeks!

I believe I knocked out this little frippery the last time I was so miserably ill I could scarcely leave my bed for a week and was assailed by fever dreams (it just happened again the other week), round about 18 months ago. I had completely forgotten about it, but stumbled upon it by chance a few days ago when rummaging around in my files.



Death sits in the corner
Idly reading a magazine
And drinking tea,
Looking at the crossword.
No ‘Reaper’ accoutrements;
Just a humourless, businesslike young man
In a grey suit.
He says it’s just a courtesy call,
Not THE END.
But I don’t believe him;
I think he’s lying
To soothe my anxieties.
It’s hard not to be anxious
With Death sitting in your bedroom.
I think to myself, As soon as he’s finished that crossword
That’s going to be IT.
Death dozes off in the chair.
I check on the crossword:
He’s not very good.
I fill a few clues in wrongly,
Hoping he won’t notice.
Death stays with me all week,
Fretting over the crossword.
Then, one morning I wake up
And find him gone.
His bony butt has etched its outline
In my chair.
He’s taken the magazine with him.

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