The Autopsy
Pronounced dead at 22:00 hours
There wasn’t much to say
and no restless magazines flipping in the waiting room
to cradle and preach.
And the spectacles of the surgeons questioned,
took cross-sections of evenings
and crowded scars to solve the anomaly,
slaving for hours with their insatiable chainsaw dance
though they knew it was an utter shame,
a COD would lie finally at the regretted end of the scalpel’s sorrowful sweep
and a farewell in order.
The first surgeon diagnosed restraint,
an existence sequestered, wasteful to it’s core afraid to touch its aspirations,
nothing more than a solemn pontification bound to responsibility,
a tragedy of itself,
and dismissed the slumbering insurance policy from his pedestal.
But the second declared the pointed finger
upon the string of circus freaks who came and went
to wreak their havoc and whisk away the
sounds the surgeons would be missing, sputtered ticking,
slivers of being gone AWOL
writhing in distant pockets on greener grass, and with a lemon-sour face
rested his case.
But despite their brilliance both surgeons overestimated
their inaudible signatures on elevated notepads,
She snatched the scalpel from their rubbered grasp
still living warmth molecules she held juxtaposed aimed straight at her eyes
sitting erect, and the futile question gaping open across her chest
she cried, “Can you not see?
My being is not in that I died at whose hands
or at the fault of which philosophical entity.
but that I was- I was!- by knowing what I could know,
and dreaming what I could dream,
and being what I was. Now, I am dead.
I lived, that is your diagnosis.”
