Death Merchants Panhandlers Squeegee People And Prophets Of Death

They smelled of death
As I walked past.

I could smell the grave
As they looked up at me
All hollow.

They were colorless
And grey
Sitting on a stoop
Smoking cigarettes.

Life was gone
Escaped.

It’s one thing to smell
Death by itself
But as a group
It was a little overwhelming
And retched
Like rotting teeth.

It started
To overcome me
A few feet away
As I was walking up to them.

It was very distinct.

I could smell
Hospital beds
And embalming fluids
The stink
Of
Foul breath
Escaping
With the smoke
From their menthols.

I did not smell menthol at all.

I smelled death.

The maggots were there
Working away on
Their insides
Chewing
Charcoal wasted flesh
Bloating up from
Death’s gasses.

They were not long
For this world.

I walked past.

A few feet away
My son
Who was just behind me
Asked

“Dad, what was that smell?”

I turned and looked at him.

“That is the smell of Death my friend.”

“And worse, it was the smell of stranger’s Death.”

“Ain’t nuthin’ worse than the smell of stranger’s Death, because it is unfamiliar.”

“Best to steer clear of that stuff.”

He gave me a nod
Like he understood
And we kept walking.

It was sunny out
And we were going to get
Our hair cut.

But we avoided Death
Like we were walking
Around a puddle.