Death arrives

like a chill draft

in a creaking house,

when your name’s on the list

you can’t return to sender

or shift your position

to ward off the call.


Some wept,

there was laughter, too,

memories exchanged

and relief

etched the faces

of those who suspected

there went they, except,

by some trick of fate,

it wasn’t today.


Death is no thief,

just a debt collector

for this ludicrous lottery,

called life.





4 thoughts on “Lottery

    • I’m of an age, Hope, when funerals far surpass the wedding invitations. And since I’m not a religious person I get distracted at them so I wrote this poem. It was the mother of an old friend of mine.

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