I slow-motion walk to the gurnie.
Dwelling on--it's not a decision.
my shoes are young,
black-wiped, white socks hiked,
sailor shorts with a string belt
as for a curtain.
They belong to me as a child
and so I bring them along.
Walk to the gurnie
across a shiny, teale floor.
Walk to the gurnie from the corner of this metal morgue.
The Fresh One is there ready to be filed away.
Mouth open, eyes closed, mashed-potatoes, a lumpy corpse under a white and beige sheet.
Me with eyelids halfway down over pupils bored, head heavy and mouth tasting the metal of not speaking for an hour--like a penny--copper and dry.
Rods of light flicker above.
Smells like sanitizer and dried blood.
Little arm extends, tan on top and cream underneath, browned by white sun and kept white from a lack of it.
The worms of my fingers--plump, segmented, white around the stick,
the driftwood twig I hold steady--and poke.
Leaving a rubbery dent on the cheek the dimple gradually turns