Once every month I take Death out to dinner.
He tells me who he’s killed and how they died:
The swine flu victim and the Oscar winner,
The author and the teenage suicide.
“God, you know everyone,” I say, impressed.
Death snorts and rolls his eyes and says “I wish.
Old age? The stroke? The cardiac arrest?
They’re just the ones who nibble when I fish.”
“Some pond you’ve got,” I say and shake my head.
I swim myself, but I’m nobody’s fool --
Everyone else on earth will wind up dead;
Not me -- I’m the exception to the rule.
Each time I say, “My check,” and pay the waiter?
“No problem,” Death replies. “I’ll get you later.”
Copyright 2009 Matthew J Wells