The Maynard
Spring 2018

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Grim Reaper in Therapy

It isn’t even the long hours, to be honest,
or relentlessly being on stand-by.
Besides, it’s not like I’m unionized or anything.
I confess, as far as vocations go,
it’s sometimes incredibly satisfying;
some lowlifes I can hardly wait
to grasp in my clutches!
But, if I’m being perfectly honest with you,
there is a certain tedium, an eroding ennui
that sporadically gnaws away at me,
diminishing my capacity to proceed,
you know, business as usual.
And, occasionally, a few qualms,
which I find dreadfully disorienting
and which tend to impair my purpose.

Of course I never volunteered to be
the Angel of Death, per se; if I had had
my druthers, I would have surely preferred
the exalted role of archangel, actually,
which, admittedly, affords a trade-off:
less publicity, more esteem. So be it.
That’s a compromise I could live with.

Naturally, I never bring my misgivings
upstairs, so to speak, because I’m not normally
so solipsistic, and I don’t want to be a bother,
and it’s not as if He doesn’t already know,
you know what I mean? I mean, really.
He’d probably just say I’m overthinking things,
and in that divine tone, full of casual finality.

Whatever. It’s fine. I’m coping.
I suspect the others second-guess themselves
at least from time to time, no big deal.
Who knows? Maybe they even get
a little depressed sometimes, too. Whatever...
I recognize that antsy look of yours, doc.
My time is up, I know, I know.
As is yours, by the way.