Deathbed Poetry
Whose great idea was it to introduce Death to my nightmares?
Okay, it was mine — and I regretted it almost instantly.
But they seem to be having fun, so who am I to take that away?
They hang out now, mostly alone, but somehow still manage to bother me.
Death’s mail keeps arriving here — piling up — unopened, ignored.
He and Nightmares’ new thing is staying up late,
trying to talk some sense into her.
The music is terrible.
Eventually, they remember they have things to do.
They leave me out of it, but not without the usual harassment.
Sometimes they even ask if I’d like to choose.
I usually pass, just to keep things from looking too obvious.
Then they call me a sicko.
I tell them it’s time to go to work.
Death shoots back in a high-pitched voice,
“Why don’t you go to work?”
The prick knows I’m unemployed.
They finally head out into the night.
For some reason, Death always returns
with blood on his hands.
I never ask why.
I just clean up their mess
and try to focus on the music.
God sometimes drops by on Thursdays.
He and Death get along pretty well.
They go out together at night.
I think He likes it.
It’s like a weekly purge.
For some reason,
He comes back covered in blood too.
I like to annoy Him, so I ask,
“A little bloody for not being Sunday?”
He usually answers
with the date I’m going to die.
I hope He’s making that up.
When He leaves Friday morning,
He always says,
“You never saw me.”
And I tell Him,
“Saw what? I’m an atheist.”
Then the weekend rolls in —
just me, Death,
and my nightmares.
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