Death came and sat outside our door. Some noise he made awakened us.
My husband stuck his head out; ”Why are you in my backyard?”
“I’m tired,” Death said. “I walked all night. My feet are sore.” I called the cops – and turned the coffee on.
“I used to have a job,” Death said. “I didn’t like it. I have another interview next week.”
“Work is work,” I scolded. “You do what you have to do.” So I brought him coffee. Lots of cream.
The cops arrived and checked him out, but there was nothing to arrest him for. He drank his coffee, my husband gave him a pair of socks.
And Death went on his way, on sore feet,
To do what he must do.
# # #
Charlotte Cooper is a visual artist who sometimes sees the poetry in quotidian moments.
Photo: Chris B
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