I see her now, raking the fire
with an old brass poker,
sparks fly up in protest
at such brazen intrusion
into their warm,
drowsy dying.
She is afraid of death,
avoids any tv murder,
or prolonged, fatal illness.
Drawn out, death bed dramas,
occasions to put the kettle on,
to rake the fire to ashes,
to put the cat out, again.
In the end she went suddenly,
Feeling dizzy, took two aspirin.
Sat down for ten minutes.
Didn’t get up again.
No one rakes the fire now
it’s all gas and electric.
2024-01-01