by Bruce McRae
Even Mr. Death takes a holiday.
A languid picnic in a minefield, a day trip
into Dachau, a little tour of the killing fields.
The grim nature of his work aside,
he’s much like us in many ways,
putting his trousers on one leg at a time,
fidgeting impatiently in long queues,
idly enquiring into the state of the weather.
Poor Mr. D., who’s been working the night shift
for longer than anyone cares to remember.
His wife, departed under mysterious circumstances.
His children, who never write, who never call.
No wonder he throws himself into his job.
Small wonder he loses himself to the moment.