lady death meets her men in bars

there’s enough beauty in one woman
to make a man write onto death, Benjamin
told me as he lit a cigarette
between his lips.

I haven’t meant such a thing, I
told him.

he laughed. his eyes were drawn
over, driven out of any life
he had left inside of him.

you will. we all meet one of them before dying.
she always tends to meet her men
in bars.
it’s a wonder thing, Seth, he
said.

I offered him a drink and he nodded
and I got off my chair
and walked toward the light
in my kitchen and popped open
a cold beer.

do you believe in Heaven, friend?
he said.

I handed him the beer
and shook my head.

what do you believe in then?
Hell? Death? What?

I believe that we live and we die
and somewhere
in between that
we go insane and grow beautiful and
live the lives the Gods
could not, I
told him as I sipped on my wine.

he laughed again.
when we die, we are greeted
by death, friend. And let me tell,
she is beautiful. it almost makes
death worth greeting. you know.
like a winter after a long summer.
or a drink after a long smoke.

I simply looked over at him
and drank and nodded.

then
he cried over his drink
looking at the old face inside
the beer.

god-damn-it, Seth …
she was so beautiful.

I know, Benny.
I know.