Death and the Little Girl

I just got off the subway where I saw death in a bright blue shirt. Her hair was a golden orange, stiff and stringy. Her harms were brown and white, punctured at the joints. Her teeth were gone and her cheeks wee sunken and she had a stroller with her, holding a fat cheeked little girl in a yellow sundress. She was sweet and loved her and told her to wipe her hands, feeding her little bits of hot-dog and giving her paper and a pencil to color with.

But when she kept dropping them on the floor, death started to cry and clutch her stomach, yelling at the little girl, "Stop making Mommy bend! You know that it makes me bleed when I have to bend!"

And I sighed and got off at 59th Street.

The little girl clapped her hands and wiggled around in her stroller, kicking up her white buckled feet in oblivion.

Now I am on the crosstown bus.