Death is the word

Death is the word
Most frequent to this apartment;
We do not speak of him.
He is everywhere.

Every morn he would enter (like air)
After four knocks on the vapid door:
Knock-knock the king is here. Knock-knock
The king and his subjects.

He is polite.
We discuss about the weather.
How it is always hot.
How the rain toils the hearts...
    (To set everyone apart.)

Sometimes, we would talk about life. Yes,
Life. How is life? Good, very good,
Sir: it waits for you. O—please
Carry on! I shall be leaving now.

And with a distinct blush he would leave,
Marring the space between us.
He would leave—between she and I,
Leaving us to the rain.

Dale Chou
2005-09-01