Monday, April 30, 2018

GREY SUNDAY, CLOSE TO TWILIGHT

The woman washing my corpse was a stranger
Oi! I yelled, Who are you to be doing this for me?
It wasn't included in the contract. I shan't pay you;
I've no money anyway.” She ignored me
Going about her business with depressing calm
Deploying any number of sponges and rags
Sometimes she just soaped her hands to wash
Some hard to reach crevice, drying them afterwards
With a yellow towel, coarsely woven.
I'd have thought it a simple matter but she was thorough
And careful. I decided to change my tune.
Plainly she was a professional, deserving courtesy
It wasn't her fault that no one had come forward
To perform this last service. How long, I asked
Have you been washing corpses? Did you once plan
A different career? Did you take corpse-washing 101
Back in college? "Little corpse," she said

"Learn how to stop talking."

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