POEM IX: “EMILY DICKINSON FUCK YEAH.”

There is a maw of ice
on my front porch steps
that calls for my skull
each and every morning.

The steering column strains
for my chest.

The microbe,
a needle made of protein,
longs to lace my organs.

But these are poor reasons
to make an enemy of him who will collect us all.

Death, the world’s most patient cabdriver,
idles outside all our doors.
He doesn’t mind leaving the meter running
and he never honks the horn.

So why shouldn’t we nod,
when we pass him in the street?
After all, his phone number
is written in our DNA
and he will never leave us stranded
when it is closing time.

We will all shake hands with him eventually.
Who’s to say
that his won’t be gentle
as they help us down into that deep black backseat
lest we crack our skulls
on the roof.

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