Poem-A-Day: Day 8

Caretaking

Stick a fork in him,
but not to check the done.
He’s been done gone
and dead
for years.
The fork
is simply to pull
what little left of worth
remains in these remains.
It’s a tiring act
that’s left the caretaker
caring less each day.
The body
doesn’t really need care
it just seems to enjoy it
in some twisted way,
gnarled fingers
pointing in
conspicuous directions,
motioning
in some half begotten way:
hither.
Too bad
it has nothing to say
but rotten
drops of teeth
and leathery winks.