Now he has things to do: The corpse waits(day one)

cold, hard, mapped in veins.
he is busy,
higher-ranking corpses
are crying to burst apart
at the seams. to be attended to.
he can see
that they are impatient,
and yet the first corpse waiting
it's so silent
he can hardly stand it's nonchalance.
so he snaps off his gloves,
it is asking for a little more
intimacy
than his latex and powdered hands.
they drop
everything, to the floor.
the next shift at the morgue,
it is at noon
and it is a girl.
young. younger than the corpses, anyway.
but old enough so that when
she bends over a body that should have been
in a middle-class urn by then,
she catches a distinct smell, it curls
into her sensitive nostrils.
a smell only recently familiar,
like the blooming of her hips, or
the curve of her breasts.
sliding this leftover corpse
into the incinerator
and "is that mayo all over her mouth?"