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.