ady death is always there
she rides in the shotgun seat
we are fellow travelers
though my gaze is fixed on the road
and our eyes have never met
her figure looms in my periphery
between us there is an awkward silence
how does one break the ice?
can’t chat about the weather with death
(man, talk about an elephant in the room)
the white lines are racing by
but with my companion
there is no closure
no shedding of light
sometimes, though,
out of nowhere
she purses her lips
and whistles a
haunting tune – the
melody strange,
mysterious,
but, oddly,
familiar