Morgue Attendant

I met a poet today,
You can tell it was a party.
On fire,
She smelled good,
Her first line, a dead giveaway,
Something about the moon,
Too many wild lyrics,
She talked up a storm,
Trying to sell me some,
All I wanted was to watch people run in the rain,
And get hit by taxis,
All I wanted was to read the thin lips of Isabelle Allende,
And imagine our African-Chilean love child,
All I wanted was to take her to my tabernacle three floors up,
It was easy to swallow cold coffee,
Easy to watch a man bent by old sins mop the place,
Than listen to another god,
It never ends,
This gospel according to poets.
She asks what I do,
Morgue attendant, I tell her
I clean dead people.