At Death’s Door
Knock, knock, knock.
Hands in her pockets, Life stands on Death’s doorstep.
Knock, knock, knock!
Still Death does not answer the door. Yet light streams from Death’s living room window. Curious, Life creeps through the bushes to Death’s window. She peers in. “That motherfucker IS home.” she whispers. Death is sitting at his desk with his back to the window. He is hovering over a ledger and checking off the names of people he had visited that day.
Disgusted and depressed, life walks home, sits down on the couch and turns on the television.
brilliant!