by Shaun Terry
“Left of the last door,” he said.
Less remains from before:
a book, a lamp, a chalice, a bed
are what remain after Jason’s snores.
The last embers burn the bottom of the fireplace.
They crackle as the angels chase
a man too late, too fast to catch,
resigned to Thanatos’s dispatch.
Family, enemies, friends and lovers
make breakfasts as he freezes beneath covers.
The bedroom door extends and squeals
as the meowing cat demands its meal.
Jason was the best of us,
his name now scrawled in ash and dust.