death is a party favor

the knock on the door
was death
who said he was in the
neighborhood
and thought he'd stop
on in and have a chuckle.
we hashed out old
times over a bottle of
scotch.

"remember your dog?
man, you were pissed."

"yeah. remember my
grandpa? took your
sweet
fuckin time with that
one, you bony
shit."

death laughed and
tossed the bottle
back
and i could hear
his teeth chattering
on the mouth of
the bottle.

"look, i really stopped
because i need a favor,
here, man."

"i only got five bucks,
death. and you're
drinking all my
scotch."

"no.no.
i want to take
a vacation, could
you cover me,
tomorrow? there's this
sweet little girl
down texas way
whose dad i got
the other day
and she needs a
consoling hand
if ya know what i
mean."

"yeah. i know what
you mean.

look, tomorrow's
bad, what about friday?"

"naw," he says,
passing me the bottle
and putting his hands
on his clacky-clack knees
which pop when he
stands up
because death is an old,
old creaking man.
"naw, i'll just knock
on the next door
down."

"good luck with that," I said,
and locked the door
behind him,
took a long, long
drink out of the bottle.