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A Poem: Lady Death 

Death, my friend, you’re
sit, sit, sitting
on my tail bone like a
chair in the waiting room,
flipping through People
Magazine and flirting
with doctors.

Your nail file is
chisel, chisel, chiseling
through my oxygen hose—
through my prison bar.

Why are you here?
Where is your scythe?

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Speaking of...

  • A poem by Donald F. Kenly III.


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