35.

I spoke with Death
last Saturday.
We shared a cup of tea.
He shook my hand,
and kissed my cheek,
and complimented me.

I told him that
I liked his suit.
He asked me for a light.
We sat and smoked
all afternoon,
into the coming night.

And when we paused,
he gave a sigh,
and smoothed his pearly hair.
He asked me why
I'd stopped to talk
and sip tea with him there.

I told him I'd
grown tired of life,
and longed for sweet release.
He answered, "And you
think that I
can offer you some peace."

I said, "I do."
And Death sat back,
and settled in his chair.
He thought a moment,
took a drag,
and met my puzzled stare.

He said, "My dear,
you've got me wrong."
I asked him what he meant.
"I cannot give you quick relief.
I'm wild and permanent."

He said, "I'm messy,
crude, and sharp.
I often make mistakes.
I'll hurt the ones you
love the most.
There's far too much at stake."

I thought on what
he said a while,
stamped out an ashy butt.
I said, "But someday,
you'll come back
for me no matter what."

"Indeed," he said.
"Someday I will.
But not today, I fear.
My brother, Life,
has told me I'm
to let you linger here.

"He says you've mountains,
book, and nymphs,
you've secrets left to keep.
He said that after
all this time,
you still have tears to weep.

"I'll come for you,"
Death said to me,
"but breathe until I do.
For gods and angels
without breath
are envious of you."

And so, with that,
Death took his leave.
A graceful thing he was.
I gathered up my
coat, and left,
with blood and brain abuzz.

And now, some mornings,
when I wake
to see the grassy dew,
I think of those who
draw free breath,
and I am jealous, too.