The Delivery Man
Doctors clamor to retrieve dying men in hospital beds,
waiting for the blood that arrives every night,
sink in the drain spinning in clock-wise direction,
anti-aging cream unable to stop the hands
creeping closer to the crumbling soil.
Murmurs of where is he?
The one who has sown life
with the bones of hope he delivers
and his medication resurrecting dead men from their tomb?
Where is the one speed demon that shifts in the night drive of graveyards?
--collecting human remains of flesh and skin of deceased loved ones
--delivering the organs for the dying lost
of defibrillators and the humdrum beep
of electric monitor device
that could wake
the mad stitches of
Where is that one? Where is he?
And through double doors the harvester of soul appears
cool air behind him, strapped to the crook of his arms, a cooler
filled with a quivering liver, and a pumping heart still beating its tricuspid
to its bicuspid, from the aorta to its vein, network of renal tubes attached to kidneys
of heart-shaped love and they ask him, why are you late?—these patients are
three days old from the stench.
The collector of bones turns to look,
signs paperwork that are montage of collage
of headless torsos, his pen a carving knife, ink his fluid,
and the skin his masterpiece of canvas, sliced in the little pieces of his signature
style lashes, as he lifts off the tunic covering his body and the whole room gasps
when they see the hole in his body, round and circular,
a gaping tunnel of pills in the hissing factories
where he spares them none.