How long the day, Delivering letters to friends, And cranky, bald dog feeders. Home Is forward, past those poplars. Always I’ve been in love with Their almond scent, just as I catch Past, dragging feet and who knows How many heartfelt "Thank-you's". Home is... where the wife is sitting. She's not keen on laundry, but, I’m an exception. Always are my blue shirts blue, She likes to make sure. Just in case I meet With him; that carrion shaker, Mr. Reaper. “Hello.” I'd say, and tip my cap, Along my silent nightly rounds; Perhaps he'd humour me, if he could See me. He's searching. For me? No. That’s not right. The lamps are thickest In the dark, and that's just how he likes it. Even if I tip-toe, tip-toe, tip-toe around Him, he'll still turn his hood toward me. A courteous, creaking greeting. That chill I get. Matches only the fear From losing fingers, as I push envelopes, Catalogues, and restless dreams Through many metal slats. But even I, can't quite see, When the sky turns milky-grey... That perching, questioning hand Placed gently on my shoulder; Pushing down as I bend my back, Kicking over milk-bottles, sometimes accidentally. I shake it off. Get to bed! I say to myself, mostly Always, to myself. Slap on some cream And Get to bed.