Coroner

The liver, lungs, the heart, and spleen,
I whip them out and wash them clean.
A tidy stack, all neat and bright,
though none will thank me on this night.

Their ribs fall wide without a fight,
as if they’d known I always might.
No polished corpse regains its light.
The dead are nothing but polite.

I sew them down and fill with stuffing,
I love my job, I’d do it for nothing.
I like to call this craft my wealth,
but I cannot restore their health.

The work is neat, no room for faking.
A puppet show, each stitch unmaking.
The grin remains, but I know well,
these lips I shape will never tell.

And now the powder and the lace,
a final touch to stiffened face.
The lips so sweet, are cherry red,
look closer still, they don’t seem dead.

The masterpiece I’ve put in place
a disguise faked for human grace.
Another thought, another thread,
another judge, another dead.

And still, the powder and the lace,
a final joke, death in its place.