STALKED POETRY

Down the Road

No way to get away

Photo by Dan Meyers on Unsplash

Death walks my garden,
sits in my tree house.
He pulls out his stopwatch
to count down my life.

I jump in my junker,
black smoke behind me,
to race toward
the hope of more time.

The road is deserted
and shrouded in darkness.
A boom and a wobble,
I pull to the side.

A tow truck pulls over
and hoists up my junker.
“You’ve blown a tire,”
the driver declares.

Death is the driver,
final exit our turn-off.
There never will be
a return home for me.