Because I could not stop for Death
He carjacked my Mercedes.
I did not fear his epithets,
Nor crave his white-gowned lady.
I’d buried myself — long — ago
Death wasn’t — even — spooky.
Languid — dark — and hop-head slow —
He seemed less grim than kooky.
I sold my — soul — long time — before
Death — purchased his — black — Lugar.
I am The Man — Death is my whore,
My cheap-by-the-pound-of-flesh loser.
Oh, yes. That “freedom thing.” Of course.
Can’t tell. Classified. Guarded secret — of the stage.
Behave — like Death — be a good horse —
I pay a living wage….
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