I live next door to Death.

No kidding.

Death with a capital D.

The hood, the scythe – everything –

but only when he’s at work.

9-5, Monday through Friday.

Some holidays

and the occasional overtime.

Goes to the beach in the summer.

 

When he’s not a work,

he’s just a regular guy,

drinking a beer in the driveway

while he washes his wife’s minivan.

Not really worried if the kids play in the street.

 

Really, I can’t complain.

He’s quiet.

He keeps his lawn mowed.

And there’s no dead cars cluttering the driveway –

anywhere on the street,

as far as that goes.

 

Still,

I can’t help but get a little nervous

when he comes over and borrows a cup of sugar.

I don’t suppose there’s any point in pretending

that I’ve gone out for the day.