Willie Smith

Those Daze

One of those days when I can’t decide 
how many humps in an m, the number 
of an’s in banana, how Achilles 
could ever overtake the tortoise, Death 
and I go walking. Arm-in-arm, he with 
his disarming smile, filling my ear with 
foreboding and despair. Would I like to, 
would I care to, step around into the shade 
to share a drop of something cool and 
not-so-sweet? After quaffing, after quenching, 
after swapping tales of lying and of wenching, 
he a bony forefinger raises: 
“Now’s the time to discuss,” he hisses, 
“succumbing to after-life-lust.” My jaw 
drops. Lightning fractures the air.  
Death with a rusty can my mouth waters. 
The mind a garden of rot and food for no thought.

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