Death came and sat outside our door. Some noise he made awakened us.

My husband stuck his head out; ”Why are you in my backyard?”

“I’m tired,” Death said. “I walked all night. My feet are sore.” I called the cops – and turned the coffee on.

“I used to have a job,” Death said. “I didn’t like it. I have another interview next week.”

“Work is work,” I scolded. “You do what you have to do.” So I brought him coffee. Lots of cream.

The cops arrived and checked him out, but there was nothing to arrest him for. He drank his coffee, my husband gave him a pair of socks.

And Death went on his way, on sore feet,

To do what he must do.

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Charlotte Cooper is a visual artist who sometimes sees the poetry in quotidian moments.

Photo: Chris B