IN A MANNER OF MY OWN CHOOSING

Death came to call last night.

Pulled up in his green-and-yellow chequer striped van,

and stepping out in the ribbed jumper,

corporate boiler suit and fluorescent tabard,

he looked a right smart bastard.

I wouldn’t have minded,

being – in a professional capacity –

usually happy to chat with his Grimness.

But we were just about to leave

for a well-earned Halloween break.

Asking no questions, he brushed straight past.

Although – as concerned neighbours –

inevitably we became involved:

hanging on grimly to chase after relatives

and keep the clogged road clear.

A shame we couldn’t do the same

for the arteries of our friend next door,

whose ashen face, when they emerged,

told its own story. Fifteen-to-two compressions

and breaths only for appearance sake.

He's been around too often lately;

we live in a No Cold Calling zone.

Couldn't he read the brand-new Council signs?

The Reaper shrugged: second thoughts

were more than his job's worth.

I wanted to punch his lights out. Shout:

“You're not taking me till I’m good and ready,

and in a manner of my own choosing.”

But in the kids' clamour to be dressed up,

he closed his door and slipped away:

a siren postscript of blue light.

 

vi.2011