I had always been curious,

If Death gets time off.

Surely they must,

The work must be so tiring.

But who am I to judge?

I never went to talk to her.

We only ever made small talk,

She was too busy for anything else.

Maybe when they take breaks,

That’s when the miracles happen.

That’s when the near constant flow of souls,

Stop banging at my door.

In those spare moments,

I feel as though I have room to breathe.

Maybe she too,

Feels the same.

I will sometimes see her,

On her days off.

Sipping a glass of orange juice,

With a colourful straw.

I fell sorry for them,

For they rarely get to finish it.

Throw it away,

To the doves.