Death walks my garden,
sits in my tree house.
He pulls out his stopwatch
to count down my life.
I jump in my junker,
black smoke behind me,
to race toward
the hope of more time.
The road is deserted
and shrouded in darkness.
A boom and a wobble,
I pull to the side.
A tow truck pulls over
and hoists up my junker.
“You’ve blown a tire,”
the driver declares.
Death is the driver,
final exit our turn-off.
There never will be
a return home for me.
published in Medium
A wonderful write. The worsening wifi here as morning blooms adds to the reading...will my comment even appear?. Really very well-written. Dark, well-spun,
I