John Doyle writes

Everyone Dies

That for sale sign

went up last September;

two people died 

since that sign went-up,

left me hoping

someone would move-in next door

soon, untie that dog, snare those bulging lumps of rats.

I don't know too much about the pair that died,

one was 92, made blueberry pie, Miss Maisie McClure--

the other, a kid called Jack, going way too fast.

Everyone dies. 

I don't want to be the last man standing

waiting for these two hayseeds to pack up 

and start moving on,

their barking dog blues 

eternally jangling.

The moon tonight has shreds of cloud

graze it, make it smile. I join in. Everyone dies.