That little thing

[smokingboot]

‘Chances are’ he said
You won’t notice me
You’ll be lying in your bed
And you’ll barely see
My quiet thuggery
Til you try to draw a breath
And you’ll say ‘That must have been
That must have been my death.’

‘Chances are,’ he said
‘You’ll be staring at the sky
Sunshine on your face
And a white car parked nearby
In a pleasant place,
where your lungs don’t lift your breath
And you’ll say ‘Oh! Can this be
Can this be my death?’


‘Chances are,’ he said,
'I’ll be kinder than you know.
No-one else around
To dissect the way you go
And to measure fast or slow
With the sunrise on your breath
When you’ll say, ‘Was that it done?
That little thing, my death?’

This has nothing to do with sharks and currents. I choose morbidity over packing any day...