Poetry

Missed Appointment

The doorbell rang. I caught my breath.
I drew the bolt and it was Death.
He fumbled in his cloak and took
From some recess a little book.
He slid his glasses down his nose.
“It’s Mr Whitworth, I suppose.”
A frosty smile played on his lips
That chilled me to my fingertips,
So I replied in breezy tones,
“No Whitworth here. My name is Jones.
Whitworth resides at forty-seven,
An ancient shag, and ripe for Heaven,
His mind long gone, his body bent.”
Death nodded, tipped his hat and went.
Jones passed away that very night.
I sent a wreath, as well I might.

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