(for Tim)

It's bright in the prep room.
The mortician walks into
this tiled and stainless steel
mausoleum with his trocar,
while the afternoon dissolves
softly as a cough drop
on the tongue.

Standing in the cold
above a waxy corpse
he works intently,
with a sort of reverence,
gazing up into the lamp ...
he could be� druid
staring into the moon
presaging futures
performing sacrifice

At the wake, when the relatives
return to own their grief,
(borne aloft on shoulders
and whispers), he stands
at the guest book working
the room with his eyes,
taking note: of the gout,
the smoker, the hypertensive,
the triple by-pass ...

His smile --- a crack
spidered across a headstone
his hands --- cool and patient
as nesting scapels.

Bro. Didacus Wilson, T.O.R.