Jerk

July 24, 2016 § Leave a comment

Oh Death, I don’t like you today
and can’t abide by all that nonsense
about your birdlike grace,
swooping like a darkwinged owl
to snuff a breath and cradle souls away.

You’re a boor, rude and self-absorbed,
overdressed and loud—
abruptly pulling guests by their elbows from the room
as if yours are the most important needs.
You swing your boorish arms while you pretentiously quote poetry,
knocking people’s drinks from their hands.

I don’t buy the stories
that you’re cordial, but misunderstood,
“just doing your job,”
an archetypal instrument of fate.

Unlike the folks you interrupt and shush,
you have nothing new or interesting to say.
It’s always the same,
and I had plans.

 

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