Work to tend the bones and tissue paper of this body
while its mind decays its every core
until the day it slumps like a pumpkin in July,
sun beaten, fly ridden, gas plumaged, colorful
in the way wood nearly charcoal
will glisten in the right cut of daylight.
"Who's afraid of a great big clock?"
Another death, another thing this body
will refuse or break to do. Dare turn the key,
then knob, and force the door again?
Dare fumble one arm into that dark, cheek pressed
to the door's jamb, eyes pressed closed,
teeth pinching tongue's tip to
remember where the damned switch is
before something cold and wire haired and wet
brushes your wrist and you rip your arm away.
"No, please. Please, come in,"
says the dark doorway. You'd better run.
Leave it closed, but linger,
palm to the metal knob.
"Die now. Die later. It is all the same to us."
