You knew your namesake was the game
that at fifty-one, malignant equals death
although detailed attention stalled discovery
burying the days beneath skyscrapers of bluebooks
the deadline remained, fixed and final.
As an officer of value, you kept dollars in line –
tallied in inkmarked accuracy, correct until
in the early hours of the seventeenth
the body’s expiration date deemed it
unnecessary to take the trouble
to call in late.