Who, You?

Death? Death Who? I don't know any Death.
I lied, of course. I saw him just last week
At dinner. He had come with Wendy's dad,
Who shivered over parsnips. He looked bad
And rattled like a toolbox with each breath.
Death drank a pinot grigiot, showed his sleek

Company manners. Yesterday I saw
Him outside Tiffany, blue box in hand.
An hourglass, he said, with diamond sand,
A bijou for a buddy in the law.

The phone rang. Death Who? I said. No death here.
I hung up, made the lords of order loud.
They shot at random, laying down the crowd.
No death. No suavity. A flitch of fear.