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by D. Savannah George
"It was spectacular!" Death
said in his gravelly voice
after spending a night at
the opera.
He had hung
his black robe in his closet,
rented a tuxedo from
the nearest formal shop, and
bought doubtful-smelling scent from a
frightened salesgirl.
That night, he
careened in on his steed,
had it valet parked, muttered
something about bad help, and
took his seat as the curtain
lifted.
He hardly noticed the
stares, nor the fact that quite a
radius of seats around
him was empty, although he
would have wished to talk about
the show with someone.
He liked
the opera anyway;
his eyes peered through great mists of
people at the stage, where fat
women sang notes that startled
angels.
The huge chorus in
the background stood and sat, and
stood and sat, which made Death quite
dizzy; he had to hold tight
to the armrest.
As he left,
the crowd melted before him;
he didn't hear the gasps from
a few pale souls; nor did
he even have to wait for
his horse.
"All in all it was
quite a nice evening" he said,
sighing nervously, as he
tried to catch up on backlog
awaiting him at work.
But
"I suppose it was worth it"
his spectral voice intoned.
And
"I don't think anybody
recognized me."
Poetry copyright © 19 April 92 D. Savannah George. All rights reserved. Please do not steal my work. If you would like to reprint, please ask permission.
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