A shadow fell across me
and the shelves of canned tomatoes
before me at the local market
someone breathing-heavy enough
close enough to feel it upon my neck.
I moved an obligatory two steps
toward the green beans
but the shadow moved with me
like the mouth-breathers from
I made a quick move to leave the aisle
when a black-robed figure
skirted around me, knocking off
half a dozen cans
with a garden tool.
Finally in line, with my 2 cans
of pizza sauce and a rotisserie chicken
I saw the black robe putting groceries
on the conveyor, and when he turned
his head I saw it was the grim reaper.
I said, “Hey man- how come
you have 32 items in the express lane?”
Everything stopped. The store
was shrouded in silence. The cashier
looked at me in horror.
Death’s hand stopped in mid-air
holding a box of Corn Pops.
“You know,” I said
“That stuff’ll kill you.”
Pleasant Street is a mother, baker, and poet. She has been writing poetry since fourth grade. Now she is writing a series of neo-noir thrillers and a collection of short stories. She thinks too hard and feels too deeply, and appears to be stuck in 1948. She is still dreaming up a way to use baked goods as legal tender.
Pleasant lives on a tree-lined street where nothing seems to happen on the outside, but she is certain many thrillers are contained behind closed doors. She is often carried away by flights of fancy, but that suits her very well.