Autopsy by John Dorroh
I’ve come into myself,
pulled out the tarry gunk in my throat,
suctioned off the dried blood from my chest,
raised a lot of scuff with fellows on the other side
of the fence. They live in boxes, placed on patrol
24/7; feed on the vapors from the ignition switch
of an Esplanade; have been given the keys to the city.
I’ve stopped on the railroad track
to get a cleaner view of a locomotive’s breath,
its fiery promise of accurate delivery; admired the physique
of the hardwoods along the edge of the creek, how they
cling to its lip like some sort of upside-down kiss, bare
roots on soil, alluvial dirt in love with its own power.
Recognizing big secrets, the way they can flirt with your time,
moistening your ears like an eager lover, modeling for me the
importance of savoring every minute of the day; avoiding set-backs
with ample practice, the personal lube of any form of art,
and recognizing that money is merely a trade for freedom.
©2018 John Dorroh
Whether John Dorroh taught high school science is still up for grabs. However, he did manage to show up every morning for a few decades with a thermos of coffee and at least two lesson plans. His work has appeared in Dime Show Review, Tuck, Piker Press, Red Dirt Press, Indigent Press, Red Fez, Event Horizon, and several others. He also writes short fiction and the occasional rant.