Today I felt my death
stalking me,
breathing its genderless
ice breath
down my neck--
giving me visions
of my semi-truck and trailer
sliding off the edge of this
icy cliff,
or that one,
with me inside,
the close-up showing me
with that concentrated look
of someone who is
unsuccessfully
trying to avoid
coming to terms
with their imminent
demise.

Needing to change the
doomed channel,
I stopped
flirting with death
long enough to
park my rig in
the big gravel lot
of Dot's Cafe,
and
eat lunch.

Compared to cold death,
wrinkled
baby tomatoes
and wilted
lettuce
were good--
real good.
The gray cucumber guts
disemboweled
all around my
salad plate
looked better than
mine would have,
at the bottom
of that cliff,
I'm sure.