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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “Carpool” Down in the Dirt, v149 (the September 2017 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

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Bag of Bones

Richard E. Gagnon

The guard dragged Frank feet-first,
as if he were
one more Saturday night special,
just another drunk destined for the tank.
Fifteen minutes of chest compressions
got the COs winded by turns
and the old man no further from death.

The corpse rested for a few minutes.
No need to hurry, really.
It’s not as if he was about to sit up
and start dancing, but you never knew.
When the EMTs arrived
they might zap him a few times,
even give him the kiss.

Stories would be passed around
like a beat up thermos of coffee
spiked with airline whiskey.
‘Scared me shitless’, said the fat one.
‘Guy’d been flat for damn near to twenty.’
Skinny said, ‘Marty had one start singing, right out of nowhere.
Irish. Pretty dead, though.’

If Frank was alive he was keeping it to himself.
The nurse checked her watch.
She was sore from giving flu shots all day,
and kept rubbing her arm as if to wake it up.
It had felt good to actually do something
with pretty much guaranteed results,
not so scary-iffy as all this resurrection business.

No one said much after the story about the Irishman.
The zap battery had gone dead,
so it was all hand work,
press and pump, press and pump.
The fat one nearly said aloud,
‘Kinda like a factory job, ain’t it?’
The skinny one silently packed up.
Frank didn’t complain when the zipper
caught on his nose. It was pretty big.
Not wanting to hurt anyone’s feelings,
the fat one apologized anyway.
He hadn’t known the guy,
but he reminded him of somebody,
couldn’t remember just who.

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