Re-write in The Writer

Death is candid, he does not take and give back,
what he snatches is for keeps.
He never lies and says ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do…‘
not a salesman but a judge,
a brusque swing of his gavel-
and then noiselessness.

Death with white gloves at a diner counter,
eating his eggs with toast, between shifts.
His wife at home, worrying over dishes in the sink
about his too many late nights,
and are they Those kind of late nights?

She has not known him to tarry with a contract,
and yet, how many nights has he spent with me?

He never goes home and says ‘That bitch is bargaining again…‘
but I am.
That is my face, flashing in and out
between a shirt and crossed elbows.
Never knowing if I am coming or going-
I will give him this for that.
Negotiate with my body, because what else?

Death at the crosswalk,
an arm thrust forward
to keep me from rushing the red light.
I have run towards him before, and been summarily rejected.

How deep is the ravine of pain?
A foot? A mile? A hole which has no end?
For which the bottom never rushes to meet me.
Never swallows and splits me open upon its terrible teeth.