Everyday we beat death
beat it back with an old broom
   when we sweep the morning porch
Death is nothing special
no ambassador to Sweden
no prince of peacocks

Everyday we beat death
beat it back at the lunch table
   when we have a swiss cheese
   with tomatoe soup, the red
   liquid from the pantry shelf
Death is not the boss here
no banty rooster strutting 
   around the big hens
no prime minister
   of the ticking clock

Everyday we beat death
beat it back with light from lamps
   children carry to our dreams
beat it back with the ransom
   we pay when we sleep
Death is not some action we take
no head in the gas oven
no reading of ominous result

Every day we beat death
beat it back with the rhythm
   of the hearbeat, the slow flow
   of air…in and out, in and out
Death is no undertaker
(any walk in the woods would 
tell us bones bury themselves)
no nighthawk that stratles 
   at the midnight window
no groom taking his bride 
   to the marriage bed