VESTMENT

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.