ag central transport valley

�The Coroner

�

I wait for the six handles, glossy box,

white gloves to be discarded later.

A few words are said, but nobody really

listens. They cannot see that they always move

behind their glass skin. The sound of dirt hitting

wood a long ways down

underneath their rubber shoes

will wake them every night

for the next few months.

They will imagine the old drum,

its carnival of worms tired of the pressed clothes,

plastic eyes. I have never seen

a body that has forgotten

how to speak. They always tell me

of every gunshot or cancer-

let every cell testify

to how they stopped blinking.

I never answer.�

ag central transport valley, ag central valley, ag central west, ag chart market.