a poem by Simon Leigh

Last Waltz

Death comes to your house
in a white suit
says he can't stay long, he
wants to go dancing.
Whirlwind introductions,
your wife curtseys to him,
V.I.P. with his quiet smile
for your twin daughters, on their best
(though Killer keeps whining).
The little ones are asleep
so you open the bedroom
door in whispers
for him to peep in.
Pleased, he glances at his
faceless watch and you,
relieved to have escaped scot-free
gasp as he waltzes you
out the door.

© by Simon Leigh

 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #6 ~ November 2009