The body.

The body lies on a steel table All around it people stand Scrubbing, cleaning, harvesting As in fruits from an orchard. Enbalmed and disarmed I see you as you saunter off Your hands in your pockets Whistling a familiar chord I know the smell of death, I think That stench of rot And formaldehyde That…

“Life is for the living.”

“Life is for the living,” my father used to say. I never really understood what he meant. Oh, I was familiar with death. I was never shielded from it and as a young teen, often accompanied my father on his occasional trips to the crematorium or graveyard. Later, on the way home, I would I…