Death sits on my mind, like that fat bird on our fence.
It chirps, burps, and glugs like a fish. I know you know what I should think. That death shouldn't be such a worry. Those who don't worry about "it" think that. Birds don't think that. Children don't think that. I think that, but you think I shouldn't think that. That is, I fear death, while you wonder about the tips of grey on my beard. The red strands only make you curious. I said I was Italian, you think I might be Irish. You fear I lied. I fear death. I don't know where the red came from.