The Coroner
Lays me up on his table
Takes up his scalpel and gets to work
The lines on his face crumple
And do not relax
Until he finds out how I died
The why is irrelevant.
The arteries, he notes are swollen
The veins sag with clotted blood
Something must’ve clogged up somewhere, he thinks
And is determined to spot it
The scalpel makes its way
Cautiously at first, then faster as it moves upward
The coroner, his eyes sparkle
As the lumps get larger
And the blood more septic black
The scalpel that eagerly slides this way and that
Jams at the narrow esophagus.
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