Running late

Yesterday's prompt from Brewer was "death." Honestly? This depressed me so much that I adopted a denial-of-death posture and went about my day.

Today I realized I couldn't dodge it for ever, so I wrote this poem. I hate it. I don't like quips disguised as poems by line breaks. Nevertheless, if I don't get it out of the way, I'll never get on with the next one.

So I'm neither the quick nor the dead.

Thanks, folks. Tip your waitresses. I'll be here all week. Unless I die.

Dead Letter

I never remember whether “dearth” means

too much or not enough.

May it be the same

when fate removes the “r.”