Death walks over,
boots quiet on the bar floor,
pulls up a stool
like we’ve met before.
He tips his hat,
cold eyes, tired grin.
Says, “It’s time, friend.”
I just nod,
signal the bartender with a raised chin.
"Two drinks for the road."
I say it like a prayer,
like a dare,
like I’ve still got something left in the tank
even if I don’t.
He doesn’t rush...
Continue reading...