I'm six turning sixteen when I see,
He's my father's best friend,
And my mother hates him.
I think it's because he clips his toenails while on our couch.
He and my dad go to the football game.
"Eagles versus Lions," I'm told,
"It's going to be exciting."
My dad never comes home.
(Luke Agrium, twenty-seven years-old,
Found dead at the Saturday night game,
The cause was head trauma when he was hit with a football.)
Death finds it amusing.
Death still hangs around my house.
He and my mother are getting along a lot better now.
"It's nice," I tell my first grade teacher, "that my mother has a friend.
Though I hope she stops moping soon."
(I only really want her to stop because it makes Death so Goddamn happy.)
My teacher calls my mother, saying that she's awfully concerned,
And asks why I'm so monotone,
After my fathe—?
I think it was rude of her to worry my mother like that.
I hate her.
"I didn't want for you to do that," I grown to Death.
He just smiles.
(Melissa Sabline, twenty-two years-old,
Found dead on the roads,
The police suggest drunk driving is involved.)
"You're growing up a mile a minutes,"
Death whispers to me as I watch television,
(And my mother pop pills from the corner of my eye).
"Great," I growl, "I'll be old and wrinkly soon."
He laughs and tells me that that isn't quite what he meant.
"Shut up," I say, "Dancing with the Stars will start soon!"
And Death suggests that I should call the ambulance soon,
My mother just fell over in the kitchen.
Damn, I think, typing in zero, zero, zero into the phone,
Kenneth was going to be doing freestyle this week.
(Madison Agrium, twenty-nine years-old,
Found dead in her family home,
The cause is an apparent drug overdose.)
We, Death and Me, wait in the waiting room
(Humans really aren't creatures of much,
Creativity, are they?)
Me and Death plays games, crosswords,
And he tells me story about sixes.
"Once," he says, "there was a town, whose emergency number was,
Six, six, six, so no one dared call it.
They all died."
(Death laughs at the irony.)
I live with my aunt Michelle now.
She's a distance woman who collects stamps.
(Although Death tells me, confidentially,
That every fortnight on a Saturday she goes to the bar,
Gets hammered, and let's any guys who wants her take her home).
She also works a lot,
And only ever comes home to sleep.
Even so, I think I like living with Aunt Michelle more than I've ever liked,
Living with Mum and Dad.
I thinks she's going to last,
She hates Death like she loves Cupid.
(And I laugh and tell her that Death and I,
Have lunch every Sunday on her lawn.)
"Oh God," I think while having another beer thrust upon me, "eighteen already."
(Goddamn it, who are all these people?)
Hell, someone even bought me a cake and covered it with red ribbons.
I check my presents.
Nope, not one from Mum or Dad.
(People keep whispering,
"Your parents are looking down on you, smiling,"
And I wonder if they've renting the room above the bar.)
Death gets me a gift; a death wish.
"You unoriginal bastard," I spit,
"That's all you've ever given me."
("Okay, sweets," he tells me,
"I'll get your bar tab."
He never does.)
He's at the bar,
Ordering the pretty girls drinks,
(On my tab, might I add),
And throwing peanuts at,
I tell him, in hushed tones,
(Because, I know what only I only know),
That he's not acting like a very good,
Ambassador to the Underworld.
"Quit cramming my style, boo,"
He tells me,
"I'm getting somewhere with the blonde."
(You know it is my birthday, right?)
She's going to die in a few years from,
Alcohol poisoning, anyway,
So I let him have her.
(Isabella Manner, found dead in her apartment,
Last Saturday night.
The police suspect suicide.)
Death throws pieces of paper at me,
During a live circus performance.
"You're not wanted here," I warn,
"There's no work to be done."
"I can't watch circus acts?" he asks.
"No," I reply,
"At least on my birthday, you can't."
I pick dried superglue off my arm,
And count the number of scars on my legs,
The show wasn't very interesting.
(Near-death always gets Death excited, though.
Even though we both know no one going to die,
"I'm eighteen now, you know."
"Yeah, I know."
"Why are you clinging to me, of all people?"
"I'm not clinging."
"Then go away."
"Because I'd like a life right about now."
"Yeah, you know, with living and friends and… life…"
"Life is boring."
"Yeah I know, but it's the must-have item of this year, and you know how I am with trends."
"I suppose I do have work to do..."
"Been slacking? That's like you."
"I guess this is goodbye, then, Boo."
"See you when I get old, D."
I die when I'm forty-six.
I'm sitting with my daughter on the rooftop,
Counting the stars starting from one.
I silently thank Death for being so,
Poetic about it.
Every Sunday morning and,
Afternoon, after church, Daddy,
Takes Nada and I to your new,
Home in the dirt.
It's not very nice, to be honest and kind of,
Smells like Great Aunt,
Wendy's house when she was still smoking.
Although, I know that doesn't matter because we, Nada and,
I love you.
Tomorrow Nada and I are sending up balloon with message for you, hoping,
It'll reach you. I have nothing to say but, I love you.
Nada wrote a poem, but you know I was never one for,
Great poetry, so I opted,
For just a letter.
Obviously, Dad prefers Nada's, I think he thing it's more creative than mine and,
Really, I can't blame him, Nada is the talented one.
You have a star named for you, we registered one. Dad thinks it's ironic.
Occasionally, and always yours,
Death and I have lunch every Sunday.
1. - Death is a very serious thing. Serious things need to me looked on with a strange eyes.
2. - No. Really. I just no idea what the hell is going on with this.