Home

Home

There I was,
89 years old, living alone
in a crappy apartment
watching “Wheel of Fortune”
when the reaper dropped by
just as I was getting up
to take a piss, applying
his great golden clamp
to my silver-haired chest,
squeezing my lonely heart
until it burst.

I remember the room filling up
with light, and the surprising absence
of pain as I blinked, finding myself
walking along a white path of pebbles
in a dark forest that seemed familiar,
though I didn’t know its name.

I met a traveler on that path,
who was dressed in a leather-fringed
jacket and a New York Yankee’s
ball cap, who had the kindest eyes
I had ever encountered.

We sat in a meadow of lush clover
and I asked him,
“What the hell do you have to smile
so much about?”

“I am your guide through this forest.”

“Wait a damned minute, Slick. I’ve got
coffee brewing and a tom cat to feed and….”

“Not at all, Paul--you are here now, and it
is only part way to your destination.”

“This is a dream, right?”

“Come,” he said, rising to his feet,
“We must go, for you have no place
in the world.”


Glenn Buttkus March 2010