Whenever I begin to write, the moon grows vexed, knowing I’ll demand she make an appearance. The ghosts which wander the halls, though, are always glad to hear my pen, expecting work. (Time hangs so heavy on spectral, death-forgotten hands). Stones put on dignity, yet somehow think of dancing. The mountains are unmoved; I rarely write of them. Death sends the shadow of his shadow; I’ve used its services so often it has thought of taking a room nearby.
I met Murder on the way
An old man, with a bad toupee,
And not, as I’d expected, grim
St. Michael cracked a joke with him
Each walked and jested with the other
As one would with a long-lost brother.
I stood there goggling at those two
St. Michael said: “Do I know you?”
And put his hand upon his sword
Till Murder stopped him with a word
“Stay, good Michael! Cease! Forfend!
I’m loath to lose so old a friend
Who’s never let his common sense
Hold him back from my defense.
He always speaks so well of me;
My work in foreign policy
He praises highly, and my plan
To arm each woman, child and man
He deems a very just solution
(Well-rooted in the Constitution)
To pressing problems of the time,
Crowded streets and petty crime.
Come, friend, come and break some bread
We’ll talk about the recent dead
And cities burnt, and battles waged.”
But I was otherwise engaged.