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Poetry is... the living writing about dying, in different ways.

My Life with the Reaper

Mug_shot_lare_b_wby Larry Cruikshank22 Mar 2014

When I go
I'll go quietly.
If I can speak out at all
before these lips turn blue
I'll admit
You got me.
Like a fugitive bagged by the law.
Laughing as the gases leak
skyward, out of me
I'll ask you
(If not with words,
then with my dying eyes)
It's true, isn't it?
You just missed me in 1976,
and again that time in '81.
I dodged you, didn't I
when I made the quick left
on 41st Avenue? Oh, dark wisp, I felt you many times
near me, behind me, over my shoulder.
I saw you pointing toward me
that long arm and bony finger.
I saw your blackness in a reflection
off my motorcycle helmet
that day on the pavement, in the rain.
In all those car wrecks. During those fist fights.
That awful day I overdosed on beauties.
I know, you thought you had me then,
but I threw up and shit you out
all at once, with one last will to go on.
I feel I really pissed you off that time.
And I could have sworn
you pushed me,
when I fell off the roof
that one 4th of July.
I bet you were spewing your own
black mist of disgust,
when the plastic bags full of empty
collected beer and soda cans
broke my fall.But hey, relax tall, dark and permanent...
you will get me soon enough.
We both know
it is only a matter
of time.