Death – How do you do? –
offers an hour glass to the mercenary.
The mercenary doesn’t want one
– Not today; not today, thanks all the same –
but he’s been caught off guard and has to hear him out.
Death speaks in an impenetrable dialect.
He raves of the past and future.
The mercenary suspects he’s addled with drugs.
Where – aimlessly – did a guy like this
get hold of a thing like that, the mercenary wonders, though.
(A lovely piece: true vintage, if it’s a day.)
And Death is speechless, his long jaw drags
as the damned soul fumbles in a jacket pocket.
Here – buy yourself a burger or something. Don’t let me catch you here again.