Black harrowed heels click on the pavement outside,
So conscious of living it leaks from their eyes.
Names engraved on golden plates catch the light,
A final attempt to show a glimmer of life.
I remember the face of my first client,
the cold fingered corpse staring back at me.
Carrying their sorrows in eighty four unjust inches,
I deliver denial and disbelief.
If only death would take its turn,
and lie down in our place.
“If only”, as I put the final lid on life,
beginning and ending the breathing strife.