Death hangs his stethoscope about his neck

and rounds the wards. This one’s too fresh

and full of life. He thinks. Looking for one

much closer to death’s door. The thrill

of turning the fentanyl tap up just one notch.

A brush of a white sleeve all it takes.

Nurse! Get a crash cart over here. Clear.

One saved. A hero once again. Next time.

He thinks.

*

The distraught parents sob.

But all’s not lost. He oozes. Reassures.

We can, if you just sign this document,

try an unorthodox procedure. Last

hope. The parents clutch at the outstretched straw.

*

Tomorrow is the day. The child-killer to be

whistles and fumbles in the carpark with the key

to his EV; looks round. Eyes watching him,

he feels. Green. Swathed in black. Fuck. Lights black out.

He’s knocked onto his knees. Beast on his back.

Twisting his head back round and off and up

into the gasoline-scented air. She sifts

with nimble paws through Death’s coat pockets

for a needle and jabs him in the arm, tossing

his body and his gear onto the backseat

of the fancy car. To give the cops something to scratch

their heads about. She grinningly thinks.