Wednesday, August 26, 2015


Long ago my family acquired a banshee
Who would, when Death approached,
Wail like anything. Since we did not die often
She had much free time which she wiled away
Up in the attic, listening to radio soap operas.
It was a relief when Lodge and Bose and Marconi
Invented radio; until then we told visitors
That we were plagued by sentimental ghosts
Who liked announcers and swelling organ music.
She was last seen in 1956
When Max,  my father’s father, died
(Some members of his shul  felt that proper cohains
Did not have banshees.) Since then, a surly kobold
Bangs a drum to announce Death, if he remembers.
He's skilled but quite loud. Miming last words
Is hard for dying men and sometimes leads
To misunderstandings and hurt feelings.

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