Death
Sits at the dinner table with me
He has
Impeccable manners
Never touches anything
Never talks out of turn
Truly
A somewhat amiable chap
Except
He has the nasty habit
Of compulsively looking
At his watch
And then grinning at me
His knife and his fork
Mesmerizingly glistening
In his bony white fingery traps
While kicking me under the table
Offering no excuses
And only the occasional
Wicked killing glance
Of an immortally bored guest
Just waiting to get up
Forcing me
Out the door
With him
