My Micromorts

Nothing is essential, still,
Many things are typical—

Death has a costume closet
Of myriad surprises,

And delights in vanishing
Within bespoke disguises,

Each with novel requirements,
Typical risks and garments—

An accident, for instance,
Has to dress as happenstance—

A good infection requires
Densely woven connections,

Whether it’s dressed as passion
For demonic possessions

Or just another virus
Hacking tracks through the forests—

While war comes sharply cornered
In well-tailored metal suits.

Cute. There’s even a measure
Custom-made for Death’s tailor—

The micromort—bit of death—
By statistics professors.

I have my own micromorts,
Scraps of rags I patch and stitch

Loosely and haphazardly
Because I’m clumsy with thread

And lousy with narrative,
And only put two-and-two

Together when I have to—
I don’t trust either of them.

Death can have us when it wants,
Me and all my motley risks,

My craptacular guesses,
My gambles, my foolishness.

We’ll get tossed in the wardrobe,
Worn once, to moulder for good

With Death’s unmentionables—
Nonessentials. Typical.