One afternoon, a priest, a lawyer, and a dentist walked into a bar.
The priest ordered himself a martini, promptly choked on the olive, and died. The lawyer jumped up, crying, “This isn’t funny!” and bolted from the joke.
The dentist, never one for punchlines, quietly called for another round.
Death came to call, and I quivered on the threshold, until I realized he wasn’t menacing me, just lost and asking for directions, his hood askew, with Mrs. Death sitting in their van, tapping the wheel.
Relieved, I sent them away down an unpopulated road and eventually out of town.
Robbie Gamble identifies primarily as a poet. When not obsessing about image and line breaks, he works as a nurse practitioner caring for homeless people in Boston, Massachusetts.