A poem from the recesses of the Marchives

Sharp observation

I have a recurring dream where I awaken,
naked, on a stainless steel operating table.
Unable to move, I can still speak. I ask the
cutting coroner what it was that killed me.
Without missing a beat, he removes a
bullet, tweezer-dropping it with a ‘clang’
into a shiny tray. “You, sir, died from
a broken heart.” I smile, correcting him.
“No, doc, you got it all wrong. She shot me.”

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