Poem: Grim

By: JD DeHart


Now, I’m really not a bad reaper,
just happen to be born this way.

Imagine me, if you can, pressed from
the womb in a dark hood.

Some people choose jobs, some jobs…
well, they’re compelled by destiny.

Like insurance agent.
Or trapeze artist.
Or death.

My dad was a reaper. I mean, somebody’s
got to do it. The boat can’t pilot itself.

So, pay your coin, mind my sickle, have
a seat. Would you like a beverage?

If you look to your left…



Categories: Poetry

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