Obolus.

He stands at my door,
arms crossed,
leaning up against the wall.
He wants permission to enter.

I decline.

He says he’ll wait.
He anticipates my response:

“You will!”

He’s at my door again,
waiting.
I tell him not to waste his time.
He mimics me,
laughing.

I look.
He’s there:
At my door,
again.
He asks if he bothers me.
I tell him no.
I tell him to take his time.
I tell him that I will never,

let him in.

Once more,
he resides at my door,
waiting,
patiently.
My anger is volcanic.
My anger is obvious.

My anger is…

Desperate.

He knows the fury is symbolic.
He knows I am breaking.

He knows…

It’s just a matter of time.

I open the door.
Charon is there.
He stands before me,
scratching his matted beard.
I am tired and weak;
in no position to fight him anymore.

“Can I enter?” he purrs.

I stand aside.

As he passes, I wear his putrid breath like a mask.
A sewer on a hot day.

“I suppose you want this,” I say,
holding up a coin.”

He takes it,
biting the metal to check it’s authenticity.
“Thank you,” he grunts,

“now keep up…

We have a boat to catch.”