Death will probably come to me
wearing shoes too beautiful for the weather
and a linen top – maybe asymmetrical
and forgiving around the ribs.
Death will probably have a tote bag
and arrive on an electric scooter,
listening to a podcast
about decluttering.
Death might be carrying a lidless coffee cup
because plastic lids are bad for the environment
and point out that mushroom coffee is a lifesaver.
Death may have just purchased handmade jewelry
from someone named Willow
at a craft fair in a converted warehouse.
Death might smell faintly of patchouli,
wet dog,
and cosmic inevitability.
Death may have spent the afternoon
arguing online with strangers
about heirloom tomatoes
or might be mildly irritated
by the woman at the diner
who got the bill wrong and believed
that grief was a portal.
Death may have a tattoo
in a language no longer spoken
by the living.
Death will certainly not know
where all the missing socks go.
Some mysteries are bigger than Death.
Death may ask if I mind waiting a moment
while they finish a phone call.
I’ll wait politely, of course, and ask Death
to show me that photograph of
the universe at eight minutes old
poking from the tote bag.
Death might tell me they’re trying to stay more present.
Death will probably be wondering why
they haven’t come up with some automated self-checkout system
already so one could finally sit down and
finish that memoir.
Death might notice the unfinished poem on my desk,
and my sorry face,
and will most probably just say
“That’s fine, we’ve got better things to do.”