Jonathan finds the morgue relaxing.
He sits in a cool corner reading
Dan Brown, eating egg and cress sandwiches
from a zip-loc bag.
The blue cadavers are filed away in drawers
like title deeds. Sometimes they died
in bed, dreaming of windmills;
once, it was a girl who caught her mousy hair
in the drain of a swimming pool.
Each night, just gone one,
he finds a new corpse, and (he does not know why)
slips a pound coin under its tongue.
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