The old men sit around in
their group, drinking coffee.
They are laughing and guffawing
and topping each other’s
stories about how and what, way back when.
When they were this and when
they were that; their lives, their loves,
their girlfriends.
Everyone having a bigger story than the next guy.

Harry sits there and laughs with them,
his hollowed out eyes a testament of the
fire raging inside his body, about to burn itself out.
His laughter, empty.

Quietly, gently, the bird of prey sent
by the Angel of Death softly flaps its
wings and lands on his shoulder, silently.
He doesn’t appear to notice, but really, he
knows that it’s there.

The men drink their coffee and laugh,
unconcerned.
Softly the bird sinks its claws into Harry’s
shoulder and with a mighty flap of those
night darkened wings, lifts him up and away.

The men in the group don’t seem to notice,
slapping each other on the back, it’s time to leave,
until next time.