Death’s trumpet

He didn’t have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing,
top to bottom. It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vine
begging to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese.

He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imagining
it was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realized
it was a terrible metaphor.
He practiced for six hours a day—what else to do?

Death looks at himself in the mirror as he plays.
The trumpet is suspended in midair. Damn vampire rules.
Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shaving
but he’ll never know unless a stranger is polite enough.
Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone.

He wakes up late these days. Stays in bed later.
He thinks he might be depressed. The caprese has gotten soggy
since he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two.
The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke.
He decides to go to the arcade. When he gets there,

there’s only a little boy with dead eyes. So far so good.
He’s playing a first-person shooter. Death walks past him
and watches out of the corner of his eye. The kid’s good.
Death wants to congratulate him. His trumpet is in his hand.