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