Paranoia Poem by jackilton peachum

PARANOIA

Do the dead sit up late at night discussing the living?
Do they gather round the dissecting table at midnight,
or sit on marble slabs in the cool morgue
- cracking wise and slapping bony thighs-
laughing and drinking too much formaldehyde?
(Oh, what a head in the morning!)
Notice the slight smile on the face of the newly dead-
or those drowned ones- wide-eyed, surprised-
what are they seeing? What secrets are the dead holding back?