OLDGUY: SUPERHERO

vs. HIS NEMESIS

Here comes Death again, sickle in one hand,
portable chess set in the other. “How ’bout
we have a nice game,” he asks Oldguy—“nice”

because he keeps an extra queen up each
rancid sleeve. Oldguy, who was napping,
pretends he’s still asleep. Death acts concerned,

tells him he should get more exercise, expand
his interests, take up cliff diving, bomb disposal,
Russian roulette. Oldguy, who once could defuse

cluster bombs mid-dive, farts and rolls over,
goes back to dreaming of the days when
he used his X-ray vision on bras and panties

and Death seemed as harmless as that little creep
in fifth grade, sole and sulky member of the chess club.
My mistake, thinks Oldguy, but he is a creep.

Ever flighty, Death gathers up his chess set
and zips off to topple a Planned Parenthood clinic
onto its occupants. He’s a right-to-lifer.

But it’s past closing time: no one’s there. Death,
now a dozen victims behind his daily quota,
curses Oldguy, dreams of retiring to Forest Lawn,

where other notables rest beneath the hyacinths
and greenswards, where silence is golden,
peace silver. “That’s the fuckin’ life,” he sighs.