Poem for Friday, July 3, 2015

Backstory

Death is at the bar, always the same bar,
waxing defeat with his cards on the table,

looking exactly like what he is: a cracked relic,
shoulder-slouched, skin the color of

neglected wood, the shade of a certain surrender
that no one else can understand.

*

We assume he's just old and thirsty, that
he'll eventually step outside, cross the threshold

into the night: wind in his face, the shadow
of a dotted line snaking down his chest,

dividing his body in half, 103 bones 
on each side, perfectly symmetrical, and

it's uncanny how he's so much like us,
how he takes in the smell after it rains and

dreams of beautiful girls waiting for him
in the meadows. Do you know that sometimes

he looks up at the crescent moon, compares its
shape to that of his sickle, wonders

how much longer before he enters.