Autopsy Poem by James Hull

Autopsy

The slick slip stream
Blows up leaves
That have had the misfortune
To fall next to the track
The fields entertain me
With charming patchwork fortitude
As we move through the ring-road skin
Into the dense red and yellow brick
That is the marrow of the fingers
Of this lumbering scant old wretch
In black torn top hat hiding nests of hair
And a corduroy jacket in black and brown
Precariously dangles over the rope belt
Which holds discolored trousers
That would rip in a stiff breeze
This man is the city. White beard
Blood stained eyes, shopping bags and dirty hands
Crouched and bent like the corrugated iron roofs
Where children's bikes and car tire's have their disregarded home.
I'm the syringe plowing deep through the skin.
The 10 minute delays while waiting for a signal change
I'm the folded newspapers worst nightmare
The empty cups and cans and wrappers and boxes
and bottles and bags and yellow polystyrene containers
All shift and take flight under the towering glass
Until the darkened luminous jacket street cleaners pick them up.
The antibodies of suits with tie and the ladies peroxide dye
All find their ways over the concrete gangways and combine
Into one mass organ, a stampeding meatball
of staunch eyebrows, secret bags little looks around
Or chests pumped out quickly clicking leather shoes
Will be the seated man, will be the seated man.
The species all look like an empty polystyrene cup
Resting next to the tent horizontally, the remaining water
Rolls out rhythmically
At around 5pm when the circus goes home again.