When I was in college I wrote
Any number of poems in which Death and I
Were close friends. In some we rode motorcycles;
(The wind blew his cowl back as we sped along;
How hard he worked to keep his robes untangled!)
In others we wandered or fought or looked for jobs
Or called each other on the phone or looked at stars
Until we fell --almost -- into the sky.
I haven't written such poems in years.
The Death I deal with now is young, efficient
Humorless; he wouldn't know
One end of a scythe from the other.
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