Death catches up to its own body

and finds it dusty and in distressing need
of a good wash, a change of clothes, 

an overdue dental appointment,
a change in attitude—

Death says to its own body, you know
there are combs and hairbrushes, 

even good knockoffs now
of Supersonic Ion hairdryers. 

Death gives its own body the up-
and-down sweep of the eye (so judgey);

Honey, it says, bless your heart
but martyrdom doesn’t look good on you. 

After all, you’ll be there at the end
of anyone’s runway, winning.  

In the meantime, why not put
a little flesh on those bones, a little

samba in your step? D is for death and 
deprive, disgrace and dirt; doubt,

dumb, don’t. But D is also for darling,
donut, delirious, delight.