In my dream, I am talking to you
but glancing over your shoulder at Death
who stands in the corner of the party
holding a quart of rum and looking bored.
Though I love you so much that,
sometimes,
I remind myself
don't squeeze too hard,
imagining a bagpipes full of porridge scenario,
I think Death and I will probably
hook up in the end.
In the dream,
there's a grim inevitability about the whole thing.
I can feel the gravity well of His indifference
tugging on my groin and I know,
if you don't catch us at it one day,
it will be the other way round:
me, home from work early,
finding you on the living room carpet,
Death's ribs wrapped around you like
a wonderful cage.
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