SKINNY DOMICILE (Emily Dickinson)
I have a skinny Domicile—
Its Door is very narrow.
’Twill keep—I hope—the Reaper out—
His Scythe—and Bones—and Marrow.
Since Death is not a portly Chap,
The Entrance must be thin—
So—when my Final Moment comes—
He cannot wriggle in.
That’s why I don’t go out that much—
I can’t fit through that Portal.
How dumb—to waste my Social Life
On Plans to be—immortal—
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