With No Other Place To Go

Life alone is wonderful in all its macabre retrospective ways, Wondering who holds the keys, the knife, who is the surgeon and who you can trust to spare the true story of your feeble beginnings forgettable life and afterlife. The mortuary table is always slid out for examination with a no-nonsense thud. Not much love is required there except for a name tag that another John Doe lies stiffened cold here. Waiting for collection by someone who is not totally, clear they ever cared. But they called you darling, my love, dear, even sweetheart once upon a time anyway. That's long before the bins were collected, and you were pronounced garbage. With no other place to go.