Cold Hands


Quiet and the embalming fluid

Flowing steadily through the tube

Through the arteries

To the brain


A lifetime etched into wrinkles

And wispy hair

A peaceful expression

Which is my responsibility to adjust


It's quiet here in the funeral home

Besides perhaps crying

But that's occasional

And paperwork that's plentiful


It's a strange cosmetic thing

Makeup to mask the ghostliness

Needlework for injuries and detachments

Clothes just right for character


It's almost like manufacturing dolls

Dolls to be buried or burned and not always remembered

But I must prepare them with love, as they say

Cold hands, warm heart






Occupation: Mortician

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