i
attended
the most
prestigious self proclaimed
mortuary college
in the world
thanks to joseph clark
and his chemical
talents
cincinnati is funeral director mecca
oldest
wisest
my professors
were the men who wrote the books
on thanatochemistry, anatomy, and embalming
or if not
they claimed to know ed johnson
i placed my name upon the hallowed roster
believing if i were an undertaker
i could control death
i would mint the coins
for the ferryman
cautionary tales of whoa
and probability and statistics
50% leave within five years of
entering the profession
i was not deterred
my stubborn resolve strengthened
oh, i beg your pardon
no, not me, sir and madame
as i began to assist
inject
learn
serve
lift
dress
cosmetize
give warm needed embraces
offer tissue
bury
arrange the honor guard
and bury
my determination never waivered
even as i began to write about it
take pictures of it
and even marry the required reading
my eyes never wandered
it wasn’t the tears
the agony
the wasted lives
the lifting
the smell
or the never ending hours
it was all a labor of love
a ministry
it wasn’t even the
bottle of bourbon kept
in the back room of the basement behind
the prep room
we all needed to be there from
time to time
my love for the world’s noblest profession
turned cold for one reason
the constant reminder
that i
and everyone i love
will all
too soon
be
clients