Don’t Be So Rude to Our Host

How is it Death likes to keep house
In your mind? House of Dust, Tech Duinn—

House past the sun, house in the ground—
It’s not just farm folk—tells and mounds

Or deep-sea lairs, a cave at least.
How like you to make Death like you,

House-proud, with a hearth, a tool shed
Or a scythe, a horse for horse folk—

King to the folks whose kings are gods,
His throne room with a grand floor plan—

All that stuff—all of it set up
As a good place for Death to live.

Can you not laugh at this? You could
Stop with Death, could you not, not make

Him stop for you, give you that lift
Back to his house? There is no Death,

And you know it, but you don’t like
To think of death with a small d,

You don’t like to die. Why would you?
There you go. There goes the whole world.

It must mean Death keeps house for you.
At the day’s end, then, you don’t go—

That’s not you. You went home. But then,
You make out that Death’s house is grim,

For all the work he did for you.
Have you thought why it’s hard to die,

And has been known to take a while?
It’s just Death is tired, tired of you,

Sick of a house full of you, more
And more each day, guests that won’t leave.

Death does his best to take his time,
Does not show up when the hour strikes,

Lets you wait, all dressed, set to go.
It could be he loathes your foul moods,

Your moans, your gripes his house is dark.
It could be your fault when Death’s slow.