Nobody travels there
without getting there,
somewhere beyond the poisoned
air, the squalid cities,
my loving family living
amidst a million cooking fires
in the once-so-lush,
Ghanaian Rain Forest.
The last stop wasn’t Death,
only a year called Seventy.
Other passengers offer
the conundrum, Death is life.
No one has a clue,
when, where Death is,
exactly. My guidebook
has blank pages.
The only one who knows
for sure is the killer.