Riding the Deadly Wagon

Every morning
we ride in Death's car,
me and him.
He drives and I sit back
wondering if I will make it
there.

He loses the wheel;
the grip is forgotten
as thoughts and more thoughts
become important
to him.

I look at everything
through the opaque glass;
perspectives change.

There, when we'd started
with a jerk or two
and here, at a signal,
forgetting to shiver-
we have come too far.

We forget.

Green light, again.
Jerks.

I squint and he coughs
as the little car puffs it all out.
"Did we die, Pa?"

"Pa?"

He drives and I sit back
wondering if we will make it
there.