The man with a gothic Skeletor face
sat on a Panhandle Park bench
posting a sign written in calligraphy:

Help me, I’m dying!

Heatedly engaged in talking to himself
speaking in a deep gravelly voice — he must have
been a radio announcer at one time.

Paying no heed to passersby, he ignored a 20 dollar bill
placed in his hand. Is he a disguised Angel of Death
reminding us our days are numbered?

Whether you’re as rich as the Sultan of Dubai
or down and out, lost in a conversation with yourself,
it’s of no matter any more when the end is near.

You’ll be the first to know when it’s time to leave.
Going home to write your epitaph, take consolation
in the distant thrum of the 1500 Aeolian Skinner pipes.

Milton P. Ehrlich