Hello Tom. The day has come round at last
the day appointed for our meeting,
the day you are to die
and I decreed to be your executioner.
So you must look your best.
If you do not I will be dishonored
before all my rivals and companions,
a regular heavenly host they are
and quite particular in the protocols of death.
You should not seem to be expecting me, you know.
No candle in the window.
No Mahler on the record player.
(But they’re not called that any more,
are they? The word has obsolesced, yes?
In any case, Mahler is forever
Mahler. Ewig!)
And for dinner something plain
and not to filling.
If there is to be a dinner.
Hello? Are you still there?
I’ll have to cancel.
Yes, again.
Such a nuisance, yes I know.
Yes I see: everything’s in such good order.
Even the bathroom floor.
But something has come up, it can’t be helped.
I’ll be getting back to you
but I can’t say when.
Go to Source
Author: The Best American Poetry
