Death came for me
bearing a bag
of Krispy Kreme Donuts.
"That's thoughtful of you"
I told him.
He wore dirty white sneakers,
which took away from
the solemnity of the
whole thing.
"Do I get to play a game
or something first with you
in order to keep my soul?"
I asked him.
Silently he produced
a checkerboard.
I beat him in a dozen moves.
"Another game, perhaps?"
I asked him politely.
He handed me a deck
of Uno cards.
His mistake:
I played Uno with my
family every Monday
night for nearly twenty years.
The cards kept slipping
through his bony fingers,
slowing him up considerably.
We had finished the donuts
and I was thirsty.
He ate most of them,
by the way.
"How about a drink of milk
before the next game?"
I asked.
He gave me a tepid glass
of buttermilk.
That's when I discovered
Death is a sore loser.
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