He wonders
what it would be like
if he could
cry
but, he can’t.
And knowing himself well
he knows he never will.
He wonders
what it would be like
to die
but knowing
he never will
...he, can’t.
Death ponders such things
on his fag break
gulps down
his coffee
(gone cold now)
“Let’s go to work! ”
He does his best Tarrentino
& laughs.
Tells me:
“It’s nothing personal
...just got a job
to do.”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem