Dan Campion


Home Delivery #712

Because I could not shop for Death
He kindly shopped for me
And even waived—I’d held my breath—
His customary fee.

From potions, rubs, narcotic pills—
Swift sword to leaden ball—
He spied the sovereigns for my ills
Down at Walt Whitman Mall—

The Food Court there supplied my want
With gastric dynamite.
That place became His favorite haunt—
Fried chicken wings—my Flight.

Rich frosted cakes, pies laced with lard,
Thick sandwiches, large fries,
Giant sodas, all point Heavenward—
But that I leapt? All lies.

No dregs of self-destruction taint
My Cardiac Arrest.
Smug Errand-Boy’s the goat—I’m Saint—
His Tipless trips attest.


purpleLDan Campion has contributed poems to Light since its first issue; to Poetry, Rolling Stone, and other magazines; and to anthologies, including most recently The Heart of All That Is: Reflections on Home (Holy Cow! Press, 2013).