A Dead Man's Advice To The Young Poem by Richard Randolph

I sometimes imagine myself dead,
lying in a morgue somewhere on a cold, stainless steel table,
or in one of those drawers with a name tag tied to my big toe.
The coroner reads it, lifts the sheet from my face, and steps aside.
My wife glances into my vacant eyes and shudders.
"That's him, " she mutters, and turns away.
I can see she's sad, and that makes me sad.
I wish I could tell her she doesn't need to worry,
that I'm alright all things considered, but I can't.
The coroner rolls me back into the darkness again,
and for a long time nothing happens, nothing.
It's terrible in there if you want to know the truth,
but then a young medical student rolls me out,
puts me on a gurney, and takes me to a room with very bright lights.
He pulls the sheet away so that I'm completely naked.
I'm embarrassed, but he isn't. He's seen it all before.
Medschool has hardened him. He's maybe twenty six or twenty seven.
He looks at my face. I can tell I remind him of someone,
but he can't remember who. He shrugs and then turns on the radio.
Unfortunately for me, he has terrible taste in music.
Could this day get any worse, I think,
and then he begins cutting away - my eyes, my heart, whatever he needs.
He hands them to someone who quickly carries them away,
or he puts them in an ice chest for storage.
He's very methodical. He reminds me of one of my sons.
When he's done, he washes his hands of me.
As he does so, he's thinking about his career choices,
his student debt, his girlfriend, the meaning of success.
He's wondering if this is really the life for him.
What would his parents think if he quit now
and tried to make it as a guitar player?
They'd be disappointed for sure.
I want to tell him he shouldn't worry about such things,
that it'd work out, and that you have to take chances in life.
But I can't. It's frustrating, but no one listens to me anymore.