Death the Conductor
Oh ye of little faith, alas
your dream is found upon folly;
you prayed last night, your stop I’d pass,
but now you must board the trolley.
By flight of common fancy, some
mean to challenge my humble craft.
Alas they find their turn does come
evasive efforts seem quite daft.
The chance has not occurred to date,
my car was less a vacant spot,
my wary clients boarded late,
or my vehicle lie in shop.
A clanking hand, chalk white gristle,
circles the rope just as a vine,
at each stop he yanks the whistle
and coolly asks, “End of the line?”