27 October 2011
I was visited by the Angel of Death this morning,
I almost ran him over in the rain.
He was crossing the street, I was turning left into the gas station.
As I stopped to refuel he approached me;
You have a tail light out, he said.
I know, I need to get that fixed, I promised.
Then he said something I think was about the weather I didn't, I couldn't understand,
and that he drives a truck.
I'm sorry, I replied, because how often can you ask Death to repeat himself?
He tried again, and this time I stayed quiet; I still couldn't understand,
but perhaps that is better,
for those who know, understand,
those who comprehend Death
must be those who join him.
I filled my tank in silence shared with Death;
I avoided his gaze,
he checked his notes: even Death has a smart phone.
He made no more effort toward me either verbal or mortal,
so I bid good day to Death and drove into the east.
He stood there casually framed against the pumps in western shadow,
clothed in the purples and orange of sunset.
It was not my time.
But I need to get that tail light fixed.
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