Death Is A Salesman


Death, Frankensteinic beastbaby
cold-hatched in Satan's basement to
become Hell's posterchild,
makes its living camouflaged as some gentle angel.
In fact, death's gracious processing
of people from this life
obscures the brutal violence of its silent swallow.
Were not for its pretentious glow and
air of pompous righteousness,
it would be seen slithering,
enslaved by solemn obligation.
One afternoon, I observed the stillness,
sacred calm as God whispered one away,
leaving death to hold a worthless carcass as
Satan screamed a muted curse, threw a tantrum,
tried to spit on everyone gathered in the room.
Captivated by the show, flashing slight of evil's hand,
some fell for his melodrama, but I spied
his flip-flopped dirty feet beneath the curtain's hem,
his panicked, flailing, wild manipulation of the levers,
sweaty nervous gestures as he pulled out all the stops
to make diversions, build distractions,
strained to please the nervous crowd.

Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown