It was “Death” you drew.
You rolled that slip of paper
between your fingers
thin as onionskin,
and dropped it in your pocket.
Pastel lady,
did you wish to spare
us? You fluttered fingers
over the basket, and drew out
“Patio Party,”
a subject we must address
before we meet again.
How many great poems
have been penned on Death?
How many on a
Patio Party?
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