Poetic Interlude XXVIII

Death walks among the roses for a spell tonight,

I think he is tired of decay and contemplating 

Inside himself the weight of carrying mortality.

Where is Death's final resting place?

Does he, too, ask God for life eternal?

For perpetual resolution of his old responsibility?

Death walks among the roses - he stops to sniff

But does not touch with glove-protected hand

He knows too well the way of wilt and shrivel.

I think Death stays too much inside his head

For one who has so taxing of an occupation-

For one with such an insincere perpetual smile.

Death walks among the roses, I have seen him

Forget himself for one enchanted earthly moment,

And reach out to capture in his finger-bones a firefly.

I watched its imitation lantern flicker out.

Death sighed and put the insect in his wallet,

Shook out his cigarette, and started back to work.