Joy Roulier Sawyer
Death’s Columbo

When we dare draw hope’s last refrain of breath,

and, breathless from love’s past, we glimpse our best,

bright longings now laid bare; and when thin death,

his face dissolved, grows pale when paired with rest

from sheer albino fear; when our grave’s guest,

arrested for grand theft, his shortened stay

the way death’s sting discerns he’s failed the test

of life, and will not underlord our day:

We’ll call it a night’s work. But until then, we play.