Morgue

like mummies
tied at their feet
wrapped in sheets
like munnies
but a suited man
counts all the bodies.
He shoves one in place
while florescent lights
on black and white -
on cold metal - on cold
skin - in a cold storage
room -
only the man in the black
suit - moves.
He ties the chin of the
dead under florescent
lights. . .
hair if any stick out of
white cotton sheets.
The man, still counts
the bodies
strapped and tied on
metal beds -

Cremation

Its all a show,
a casket with flowers
on the top. . .
Its all a show
for mourners
who sign a death book.

Did you ever wonder
if its used again,
the casket is burned
a metal plate stays -
rolled into a crematorium
like an industrial plant
as material burns inside
a black hole..

So the flowers might
be saved to decorate
a church, or placed near
a grave marking the
date of birth and death -
but did you ever really
want to know - where
your loved ones go?

When a child dies

Oh beautiful the child
inside a coffin of white
with flowers of white roses
bring beauty in soft light. . .
Oh child of the dead
you sit restlessly to wait
your turn to be let go -
to run and disenagrate.
Oh child of my love
not uncommon to bring
you home... to scatter
you around the playground
or in the lake where you
once learned to swim...
And, it is there forever you
shall roam.

Cremated

I feel the heat of fire
red - orange - blue
Flames of death around
me, as the coffin is ignited
does the man make the sign
of the cross? Does he think
of you as a person, or a job
and nothing else...
You lived twenty years and
only in less than two short
hours, you have left the earth
and turned into ashes inside
an urn. . .