The Slow Angel (Poem)

(Note: this poem was originally published by “Anxious Poet Society” in December 2018)

The Angel of Death
doesn’t have wings.
He’s the only angel
not in a hurry.

He’s no blood-hound
stalking my scent
with a snarl and
gnashing teeth.

He’s detached.
Almost bored.

He tails my car
as I shuttle myself
to the office, the gym,
the grocery.

I’ve caught him yawning
in my periphery, to say,
“Your middling existence
warrants no haste.

Don’t lose sleep over Death.
You’ve been dead for years.
My message is redundant;
a formality, really.”

The Salesman Passover

(by Daniel R. Jones)

Behind drawn lace curtains
they wait with bated-breath
blood-red “NO SOLICITING”
signs hung across the door.

They watch me pass
like I’m the Angel of Death.
Muscles relax.
They can breathe once more.