Death, you glutton,
Do you delight in the feast on the centennial
as much as you do in the infant?
Do you care about the color of your victim’s skin?
Does it matter to you?
Do you pluck the suicide’s swinging from the trees
with the same enthusiasm that I pull the tempting apple?
Do you relish in ironies when a mermaid drowns?
Or when the poets die in the trenches?
Does the christian life taste as good as the jew’s or the muslim’s or the atheist’s?
Or do you imbibe life without discretion?
Death, my friend, kindly do not stop for me
My whole expanse I can not see
Besides I am the gingerbread man
Catch me if you can
Andrew Borne is 2 Cups Poet 1 teaspoon Musician 1/4 teaspoon Salt 1/2 cup Absurdity 3/4 cup Chef 1 egg, beaten 2 1/3 cups Family Man. Mixed together and served raw. His column appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.