Close Call (Poetry)

That old Grim Reaper came round to my flat —
loitered on the (not so) welcome mat
while I made out that not a soul was in
but doubted I could ‘pull the wool’ on him.

He hung around, examining the place
as though quite certain I would show my face —
eventually grow tired of the pretence
unlock the door — say ‘sorry!’ in defence

for the delay in letting him inside
as though there was a chance that I could hide —
escape his visit once the time had come
and totting up my years had reached their sum.

I listened hard — and heard him walk away.
I knew he would be back another day.
He’d ‘bumped’ me — just for now — he’d call again.
He left no card — so there’s no guessing when.