by Ron Larson
From a story by John Galt
He had had for sometime a low-grade, lingering fever.
His mind was keener, but his body became weaker.
He saw the concerned looks of his doctor and his friend.
Then he lost the power of motion and feared the end.
An old nurse closed his eyes, ending the bright white light.
She then announced: "Dr. Peters, the patient has died."
He heard the sobs of his friends until they left the room.
Soon he smelled two attendants who behaved like goons.
They joked about him as they turned him from side to side,
Not realizing that even a corpse still has its pride.
He was laid out in the parlor; his eyes remained closed.
The loved one was dressed in his best Sunday clothes.
For three days, a number of friends called to see him.
He heard them quietly speak of him way back then.
On the third day, someone said he smelled corruption.
After the last rites, the mortician sealed his coffin.
The rough ride to the grave site didn't jar his bones.
He was lowered into his grave, alone in his new home
Until Judgment Day when he's destined for heaven.
But for now, vermin would soon be feasting on him.
After the noise of loose soil on his coffin had passed,
He heard the sound of eager diggers at their task.
They were grave robbers who had kind hearts that day.
They took him to the medical school where he passed away.
© 2016 Ron Larson
Ron Larson is a retired community college professor (Ph.D), and one of his hobbies is writing all kinds of poetry. The above poem is from his "66 Classic Horror Stories Outlined in Rhyme." He's also the author of "79 More Strange Stories Outlined in Rhyme." Both books are available online, as well as his nine other books. His web site is: ronlarsonclassics.com. His email is: firstname.lastname@example.org.
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