Grim Reaper

The hour finished, and the hood was already there. The grim reaper stood with the scythe low, a skeleton of the old death story, no hurry, the cloak taking the last of the light. People forgot the sentence they had been in. They carried a grim reaper gift of that finished hour. It returns in grim reaper playing cards that end a hand too soon, in a grim reaper notebook with the date written and nothing after, in a grim reaper postcard of the hood and the waiting blade. The clock stops mattering. The scythe does not.