Death’s Door by Alan Catlin

 

He is as gaunt as a Camp survivor,
one of Death’s on-the-job recruiters
working the bars for new recruits.
Runs his hand over three months of
chemo hair style, rubs his bloodshot,
watering eyes, says,
“I must look like an Irish trashcan.
That’s how I feel these days.”
Is trying to drink a depth charged
pint of stout, says,
“For the Iron.” But is having
trouble keeping it down.
“Used to be I was a real dresser.
Chaser of ladies both large and small.
Look at me now.” Wears pants
the fit him like a sick elephant’s
skin even with a belt pulled as tight
as it will go and a shirt made for
a man two or three times his size,
says, “What’s the point of buying
new clothes now?”
“Have one on the house.
For the road.”
Kind of smiles, “Sure, why not.
What the hell?

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