The Mortician
I ride the bus to work each day
alone amidst the crowded seats.
No person has a word to say–
not even people next to me.
The business section covers him
Like sheets on corpses in the morgue.
He squints to read in morning dim,
And coldness fills me all the more.
She paints her face with rouge and paint.
She hides behind her living face.
How many faces I must paint
With patient caring every day.
The driver stops and I descend,
And like a brightly colored hearse,
The bus transports them ‘round the bend.
I’m chilled beneath my coat of fur.
Now I go to work to see those
Sweet belov’d for whom my love grows.
Neither do they talk nor hear me;
Yet I talk and love them dearly,
For it’s plain they do not fear me.