The Famous Pathologist

His letterhead showed five degrees
post nominals like swarming bees.
A summary of past achievement
this morning's subject was bereavement.

A man of twenty-seven had
(blue eyes and quite a handsome lad)
first emptied what was left inside
a bottle, then shot up a ride.

You see, in modern times they will
experiment with drugs that kill.
The autopsy, which is required
was scheduled for the much admired

Pathologist, the region's best.
They said the addict had been blessed
to have these learned fingers roam
his sad remains. An epitome

of what the scum of humankind
believes, it boggled his great mind.
He did perform each step as planned
ran tests for substances, all banned.

Cut slices off the body's heart
and placed them like a work of art
inside big jars of formalin.
At last, he finished with a grin.

He sat and started the dictation
it followed every operation.
And in his mind he had succeeded
his patients, though, no longer needed

were all allowed to truly die.
And no one asked the question 'Why'
As you can gather, some respect
is common sense when you dissect

a human being -sheer routine,
but this great man was a machine.
He saw his job to make much dough
and had become a techno-pro.

Yet for his subjects did not care
he had no thoughts to ever share.
This day, another dull routine
he washed and shaved, already keen

to take the wife to lobster dinner
forgot this young pathetic sinner.
A man like this, he swims in pride
and when he got to the outside

he passed the addict's family
but did not see their misery.
The autopsy report, now ready
and on the cover it read EDDY.

There was no mention, other than
that he had been a stupid man.
The family relived the terror,
when reading, they observed the error.

All facts would always be the same,
but EDDIE was his real name.

by Herbert Nehrlich

Comments (6)

I think it could be put other things in life as well. So many people don't think how disrespectful they are. You did a great job of showing this. Nicely done!
Herbert, this inside look into a pathologist's day is chilling...and there of course is that disconnect between the purely scientific look at a life (examining the victim under a microscope) and a sad, wasted life. Very well written Raynette
Scarlett, this is a true story. The Pathologist was presented in a one page summary of his greatness and achievements. He signed the report, of course and did not catch the gross misspelling of the victim's name. It was spelled three different ways (no it was not Eddie) and I think he didn't care. But if he did catch it it wasn't important enough to put that one small piece back into the puzzle, that little bit of dignity. H
Herbert, I see the sad waste of a young life, and maybe this poem will make someone think - when your body hits that slab in the morgue, none care. You just become an experiment, a piece of meat to be cut, then move on. How sad to see a life come to this. Scaralett
A cutting satire (no pun intended) . Gina.
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