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“Is Death miles away from this house, Reaching for a window in Cincinnati Or breathing down the neck of a lost hiker In British Columbia? Is he too busy making arrangments, Tampering with air brakes, Scattering cancer cells like seeds, Loosening the wooden breams of roller coaster To both with my hidden cottage That visitors find so hard to find? Or if he stepping from a black car Parked at the dark end of the lane, Shaking open the familiar cloak, Its hood raised like the head of a crow, And removing the scythe from the trunk? Did you have any trouble with the directions? I will ask, as I start talking my way out of this” — Billy Collins
Is Death miles away from this house,
Reaching for a window in Cincinnati
Or breathing down the neck of a lost hiker
In British Columbia?
Is he too busy making arrangments,
Tampering with air brakes,
Scattering cancer cells like seeds,
Loosening the wooden breams of roller coaster
To both with my hidden cottage
That visitors find so hard to find?
Or if he stepping from a black car
Parked at the dark end of the lane,
Shaking open the familiar cloak,
Its hood raised like the head of a crow,
And removing the scythe from the trunk?
Did you have any trouble with the directions?
I will ask, as I start talking my way out of this