Body Problem

A Poem

At the hour
Of demise,
Scour a bower
For Death; he flies

In stillness,
Circling round
As Illness
Tends the ground.

Strained breath slowing,
I spy his
Wings’ breadth growing;
His eyes quiz

My cotton socks, sliding
On slender legs –
Loafer-capped and gliding
By like splintered pegs

From a sport-coat
Torso bloated by coffee
Cakes. A rote throat 
Sings an off note: me.

Sickle Beak, feed
On sugar and tweed.