High tide in the mortician’s eye
Happens
Not expected though
It dries to the cheek
With the help of a fan
The fan should have been turned off three months ago
It’s early January
Jack Frost nipping at the pain
A brown leaf sticks to the mortician’s black shoe
As he attends to the day’s duties in a swivel chair
Licks the pencil’s tip
The inventory is recorded in a clipboard
He zips up the bags making sure each one has a nametag
He reads off one name to himself
The fan blows against his face
Takes a deep breath
Exhales seeing his breath
Just hasn’t gotten around to turning the fan off yet
Could be the way it sounds