Death came toward me today
wearing an eighty year old woman.
She was so kind, saying,
Oh, you've lost your kitty
I'm so sorry.
And I said thank you, wanting to add,
and I'm so sorry that you look and sound
like death, that your shadow scares me
and I don't know how you persevere
with those empty eyes, that fig of face
and filling a house-tent way too short
to reach those shuffling vein-bulged feet.
I wanted to say that at least the cat
can enjoy a few tiny murders before
his own in the sweet smiling sun, not
dwelling on life's villainous vestments
endlessly weaving, finally de-weaving.
Instead I stapled another flyer and
turned from the yard sale,
complimenting Death on her handbag,
afraid she'd open it.