On the Rug

On the Rug with Death, two beers in hand (though no one here drinks) we laugh, his lifespan a joke still fizzed. My breath ignites wars, lulls drivers to sleep and builds bridges for his guests. What idle past- -times you worship, he pitches, eye wand’ring to traverse the awkward silence as I know what comes next. My gauge on Man’s power dwindles. Perhaps, he drawls, you might taste something ever so slightly more enlight’ning. His heavy accent traces over the words, like sugar on a sticky thumb post-binge. Tongue in cheek, his fingers surpass my laugh in wishing to be broken.