The Second Visit

A poem by a friend of mine, Ken Brewer, dying of cancer.

The Second Visit

This night he wears a red dress,that sleek Flapper style for dancing,
and a Flapper hat low on his face
though I can see black-curled eyelashes.
Red heels and red gloves, small red
Purse hanging from one shoulder. "Sharp," I say.

Death turns as if to blush. Imagine that,
I think, Death blushing at a compliment.
Then he crosses his legs, smiles,
asks, "About time, don't you think?"
And I do, but I say nothing yet.
Bedridden, bloated with Ascites, no tux, no bow tie.

"What did you wear for my mother?" I ask.
"Beige tent dress with a light brown collar,
beige sandals, a white orchid in my hair,"
he said. "Nice touch," I said. I wasn't
bargaining this time and would dance if I must.
But Death smiled and left. I'll guess bib-overalls next.