The Four Horsemen

I saw the Four Horsemen - the famous apocalypse guys. They rode silently past neatly folded laundry, They approached me in silence, their breathe a rye and meadow wind. Each of them in turn, gliding ghostlike past where I sat, watching steam on the mirror grow cold. War had no use for me, past my prime, bum knee. Not even as cannon fodder. Famine had little to work with, I had known hunger, want, poverty, nothing he had could scare me. Pestilence likewise dismissed me out of turn, for which I’ll be forever grateful, probably too sedentary to spread the touch. And Death, well, we all must dance, but today is not the day, now not the hour, Death merely bid me good day. And then they were gone, their vacancy tangible, while I decided to look up embolisms or strokes, trying to close this doorway into myself. Until I saw the tracks in the talcum powder, heard the soft whicker of horse, and tasted their life on my tongue.