The Pathologist

From her lavished home Into the body bag! From the body bag Into the cold freezing plant! There is more to it Than the freezing of beers That's for you to hear! She was beautiful Or so, She had thought to herself! But not anymore! The reason for her leaving And the manner for it Must be known! He was called in. And again she moved But she knows not that she moves! Now, she moves From the freezer Onto the bier Into the green room! But she wasn't aware! How futile! He came in Clad all in green. Down came the scalpel Tearing her up Like a butcher with his knife! He pulled and tugged At dead intestines At rotting food remains At the bloating liver At the motionless eyes At more and more! Then he took samples. Samples that will tell Or even untell The cause of death Of this once-upon-a-time beauty. Looking at the once Privately private body That was gaily covered And that no one Could anyhow intrude. Looking at all before him He knew Again and again As in all other ones That we are living In futility! We are but wastes! His job is to find The causes of deaths Of this body and many more Before and after. But he thought For how long more Will he do it? He knows his will be done Then his man pike A grub would have become! But when will it be done? Lots of deaths He had helped demystify But what will kill him? He knows not. He only knows That one sure day The Pathologist A stiff will become! (An homage to Wole Soyinka. Born from the poem: POST MORTEM)