“Making the rounds?” I asked the figure in the corner of the bar
All black-leather-jacket-and-straight-cut-jeans –
It was the sunken eyeballs that gave him away
I knew he was Death by his walk; he didn’t need the scythe
With a smile like that, with teeth like that,
And he just nodded to me, waiting patiently in the corner

“What brings you out here?” I asked, and he levelled his eyes
One of those “Mind yer own damn business” kinda glares
But politely enough he replied “Work,” and grinned a bit larger
The sort of grin that indicated he was either an assassin
Or some kind of general contractor… perhaps, I thought,
My imagination was getting away from me

“I’m a sort of end-of-life support worker,” he said
Without being prompted or pried at, and I nodded –
Tendrils of smoke rose from his cigarette, which he ashed
And looking at me said “Say, I’m lookin’ for someone,”
He held up a picture of me at a family function
And his grin went ear-to-ear