Your Date with Death
       

starts with low expectations.
You don't even bother to shave.
Well, forget what you've heard about her.

She's Wendy, your high school sweetheart,
still eighteen, dressed in white.
(How could you have dumped her?)

She takes your hand
and you think peaches, waterfalls,
the smell of suntan lotion

on bare shoulders.
Now you can finally dance—
not the tango you once craved,

but a mannered waltz
in a mirrored ballroom,
ending with a curtsy and a bow.

Later, at her door, she thanks you.
Feeling shy, you ask,
What's it like, being Death?

On good nights, she says,
it's like this,
and she kisses you hard.

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Copyright © 2012 Andrew Merton All rights reserved
from Evidence that We Are Descended from Chairs
Accents Publishing
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission