Almost invisible, he plods quickly through carrion
    piled helter-skelter on the bulldozed hillock. Dead
    heads, dead eyes, dead limbs, dead legs, dead dead
    form wreaths on the gaping holes in graveyards we
    now know: Kampuchea, Maguindanao, Somalia,
    Libya, Uganda, Nigeria, Botswana, Russian pogroms,
    Mein Kampf railroads to the Herr’s crematoriums,
    killing fields: he was there, “been there, done that”,
    his austere and remote account of his unique job:
    counter of the dead, keeper of the books, master
    of the morgues, “keep them coming while we could,
    death shall have no dominion.” Nor a condominium.
    Like the nuthatch, he walks with a limp in his dark,
    gray suit, shrugs, leaps over the dead cherry and
    stifles a long, deep yawn, and fixes his ledger pages.

    — Albert B, Casuga

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