.

This morning, the elderly man suspects that The Reaper follows,
Though he knows not what happens should he appear.

     Will a driver, drunk and hurried,
     Late for some rendezvous further on,
     Unwittingly leave him broken on the road?

     Or will his heart take on sudden weight,
     Bending him forward 
     Till he drops to his knees?

     Or will a cancer self-cultivate,
     Inciting a futile resistance
     For three or four, or even more years?

Now, though he cannot say how far behind Death trails,
Logic suggests he is closer than last year,
For at his age, Death’s stride is longer than his own.

That said, up ahead, those bougainvillea vines,
Just where Aviles Street turns out of sight,
Beckon him toward a moment’s simple pleasure.