Previously appeared in Margie, the American Journal of Poetry

Waking

Clockwork. Each morning
your death waits
near the bed —
     not black-winged,
     hunched or hovering —

just there, in a chair
by the window
perusing The New York Times.

Your death’s been up all night,
turning pages quietly,

     licking the lead on his pencil
     as he reads the upcoming events.

He’s ready for you now
with a few suggestions for your day.