Monday, 8 May 2017

A poem by Matthew Dobson

Autopsy


Claggy apron, steel-toe boots.
A bone saw, extra-wide-set teeth.
One brand-new pair of chainmail gloves.
P45. Blue tabard. Hair net.

He chucked it all in a black bin-bag
then traipsed through nuzzling rain to town
where he pressed his work into a dump-bin
behind the shop, snug with the trimmed fat.

Then dusk came, soft as a calf’s ears. He rode
the bus back home and counted coins
out of his purse, into his palm,
onto his tongue and down his gullet.

Dear dear, they said, as they cut him open
and the unspent coins lay wet and glistening.







Matthew Dobson is from York but currently lives in Surrey where he works as a teacher. He has had poems published in a number of online and print magazines, including Butcher's Dog and Ink, Sweat and Tears.

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