on a motorcycle
into the intersection at 50 miles per
with no helmet
arms open,
legs branching.
Ahead, I saw him, and behind
in the rearview, where he
completed the turn,
separate
from his simple machine,
sheen of red on asphalt.

And wasn't that death, too,
halting but deliberate,
weak and in rags,
death, unmistakable,
approaching our fancy,
outdoor lunch
as my friend tapped out her troubles:
not good
no more
not again,
-which was her life-
with a teaspoon on the table.

I wouldn't look up, wouldn't give
the dollar's worth
of attention he demanded,
something to eat. But I found him
again, later, another day, taste
of morning, steel in my mouth,
Death, advancing
at the same
ceremonial pace.