When Death Calls
Love opens the door inside the dream
we call today. In eases Death.
I sit the freak on the sofa.
Slip into the kitchen to fix drinks.
Hear Love invite our guest to leave.
Death mumbles something I can’t make out
above the seltzer fizz and the cubes clinking.
When to the living room I return,
hand each a cold sweaty glass,
Love stands at the window,
watching a cloud eat the sun.
Death, on a cushion slouching, accepts the mix
of bitters, lime, soda, spirits. Grins into my face
he hopes Love and I are well enough making out?
Opening the door to tongues tangling
anxious poetry; fingertips brushing breasts;
never closer to meet. And it’s me at the window,
watching both guests dissolve in a squall of hail,
ticking at the glass its tiny watches,
making the world out to be cold and intimate –
alone and alive as a thought
seeking in a picture to hide.