When I think of death I think
of Peter Falk in The Princess Bride patting
his pockets as he leaves the room

Life is a series of doors or so
they say but I ask them this
where does that last door lead?

For Falk maybe it leads backstage
a black-walled catered affair with stage
lights slowly baking stale muffins

Sweaty cheese leaking onto dried-out
grapes a chocolate fountain clogged
by some errant strawberry crown

but this is not where it leads for you or
for me that door opens onto darkness marked
only by a trellis or the lid of a casket

the door of the earth’s womb opening
finally to accept us and with us the dirt
not to grow more strawberries for Falk

but to pad his feet as he walks overhead
to visit someone he certainly cares about
but whose name is lost to posterity.

When I think of death I think
of Peter Falk in The Princess Bride patting
his pockets as he leaves the room

Life is a series of doors or so
they say but I ask them this
where does that last door lead?

For Falk maybe it leads backstage
a black-walled catered affair with stage
lights slowly baking stale muffins

Sweaty cheese leaking onto dried-out
grapes a chocolate fountain clogged
by some errant strawberry crown

but this is not where it leads for you or
for me that door opens onto darkness marked
only by a trellis or the lid of a casket

the door of the earth’s womb opening
finally to accept us and with us the dirt
not to grow more strawberries for Falk

but to pad his feet as he walks overhead
to visit someone he certainly cares about
but whose name is lost to posterity.