A/N: So, I was writing this poem about a moritician (no way, the title totally does not give that away at all), and I could not stop thinking about Ducky while writing it. So I made it about Ducky. Not the best poetic poem I've written, but once it started getting fannish, the poetic element slowly faded . . . Anyhoodles, this is longer than the poem. Also, the lack of capitalization is just my personal choice for poetry.
the mortician
slide a steel tray from your gutter,
your locked refrigerator wall, bright
lights like shocked faces blinding
the floor into reflective glares –
you were expecting that, yes?
slice a deep latter letter into chest
caverns, peeling back cold muscle
and revealing some cool stench,
a prepared pickled organ or two,
then wait, with an englishman's
gentle patience, for the once-alive
to speak to you again – talk, sailor,
tell us your little story, you insist,
then continue with the autopsy,
satisfied with what you have heard.