Poetry
Felix Thursday
Death Goes Out Whoring
Death and I go out whoring.
We'd both fuck anything that moves.
"Not your type," Death says,
knowing it doesn't make a difference.
"Not your type either," I say,
knowing it doesn't make a difference.
No one likes the look of either one of us--
too foreign or too familiar.
Death is more outgoing, though.
No one stays a stranger for long.
Still, inevitably,
at the end of the night
we go home alone.
