The Misconception of Mortality, Pre-Turn of The Twenty First Century

My friend, Death, and me,
we did not see eye to eye,

not now,
not ever,

I had synapses that did not flap properly,
did not ebb and flow when I needed them to,
did not give up the way he would have liked,
as early as he had wished

They were stuck on these Tuesdays in 1996,
when I knew not Death, or any of his cousins,
when they passed me by in their black and silver Studebakers,
and took no notice of my flesh and bones,
just as I took no interest in them

We were acquaintances of sorts,
vaguely aware of each other's resistance,
of each other's magnitude,

until Wednesday,
and on Wednesdays I looked older,
ripe,
because thems were the facts

But my long lost friend, Death, was never lost,
he was hovering,
like a leech,
swarming for this,

just breathing for any given Sunday