I SEEM TO BE RELATED TO DEATH,
by Roger Fritz, 1-16-07
Death keeps paying me little visits,
as though we're so close he doesn't need an invitation.
At least last time he let me know he was coming:
in the middle of the afternoon there was a
little tickle in my lungs.
In the evening he showed up wearing the name bronchitis
and made himself at home.
I don't know what he intends with these little drop-ins.
He moons around the house in a purple bath robe,
reading romance novels
and turning the thermostat up too high.
So I'm always glad when he leaves.
Perhaps he's reminding me he owns the property,
and will be coming back one day to stay.
When he does, I'm out.
One of these days I'll see him coming up the walk,
pulling a steamer trunk full of books on a hand cart,
and I'll know it's time to pack.
Or perhaps he was just on his way somewhere,
and my place was convenient....