Morgue Attendant

I met a poet today,
You can tell it was a party.
Sleek,
Goodly,
Handsome,
On fire,
She smelled of fog and flowers,
Her first line, a dead giveaway,
Something about the communistas and the Sicilian Syndicate,
Too many feral sons never taken to a punch from their old man,
She mined a ricochet bullet from the gut of her informant, says she.
Survived the black plague, swears she.
And knew by night sweat the screamer of a man disunited from his penis,
She talked up a storm,
Trying to sell me some vendetta,
All I wanted was to watch plebs scramble in the rain,
And get hit by taxis,
All I wanted was to smell the leather of her injuring strap heel,
All I fancied a dream revived, the kiss on haggard lips of Isabelle Allende and my coup de grâce,
And imagine our Afro-Chilean misbegotten script,
All I wanted was to take her to my tabernacle three floors up,
It was easy to swallow cold coffee there,
To bear the old smells of tree back oils and unripe oranges,
And the blinds stayed ajar to the baker’s mother’s psalmic phalanges.
Easy to inspect a super bent by his old sins to mop the place with more muck,
Than to listen to another rhapsodist,
It never truly ends,
This gospel according to sadists.
She asks what I do to keep from dying,
Morgue Attendant, I tell the lout.
Under a spot light, and atop a pot,
I clean dead black people,
Their families like them cleaned.

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