The first car that had to stop for me at the traffic lights on Barrack Road today was a hearse with a coffin in it. Is that what Emily Dickinson meant when she said, "Death kindly stopped for me"?
Hearing about this my poet friend Bryn Fortey said, "It's when they stop and offer you a ride..." Indeed it is. And I've seen too many people go with them for my liking in the last couple of years, not that any of them had much choice.
But as I told Bryn, they offered me a ride in the hearse last year when pneumonia laid me down and my lung collapsed. I was lucky, though. At that moment Michelle came along. She gave me a lift in her beat old yellow Fiat, and took me to the hospital instead of the grave.
I'm not ready to go anywhere with those grim-faced black-wearing behatted avatars of the void just yet. I've still got one great poem to write (and since I'll probably never do that, I can't ever die).