I focus my eyes on a point in the distance,
A place in the future, waiting for me.
Shaking, trembling, a nervous dance,
Anticipation for what I see.

Climbing the walls, pacing the rooms,
Anything to make it arrive,
Hoping, praying for it to come soon,
Waiting days, nights, sunset, sunrise.

Twisting my fingers into tight fists,
Breath coming faster now.
A drop of blood from my bitten lips,
The silence bursting with noise so loud.

At las the door opens, a man walks in,
The rain dripping off his head.
He shakes my hand, then pulls out a tin
Full of mints. Why mints for the dead?

But they aren't for me, but for this stranger,
To hide his cigar-smoke breath.
What a funny thing to be my last smell,
A peculiar scent in the mouth of death,