Death: Joseph
by Elizabeth Light
i
have
seen
very little.
experienced
the ebb and flow of days
with no real appreciation,
let fleetingly pass me by
the tanned hands of
dozens
of suited suitors.
have drunk
many scotch & sodas, have
never
tasted
the ocean.
in these seventeen strange and spurious years
i have barely existed.
have clung to the bored thread
of conversations,
have typed critiques
and many essays, have
daydreamed till my wrists were sore.
death will come
when least expected:
when the bird cries, when the waves
sway in the south,
when the teakettle screams,
when the executive raps at the door.
the hour of death
will not be a black one, never
appropriate to the event,
but wreathed in a flurry
of ugly sunshine,
and the blue skies will lie
when they say that all is well.
nothing is well when something
else is dying.
therefore, the world is unwell,
for it is dying every second.
and the stories i have heard
engage my fear, release it from its dusty holster,
and send the deaths of the world flying out
with every pull of the trigger.
