It was hard not to hate him: a double amputee,
advanced syphilis, plastic tracheotomy tube
always clogging. He kicked against the tied sheets
with his stubs of legs, a constant scissoring.

He'd been transferred from prison. Rumor claimed
he had strangled the girl. Fucking worthless
punk, Otis sneered, stuffing dirty linen
down the chute. He wasn't conscious, not that we

could tell. The night he died, Linda and I
got stuck with cleanup. She was 37, took weekend
classes. Her husband had dumped her just
before Christmas, emptied their bank accounts.

We pulled on gloves and got to work. Linda bathed
his face and torso. He looks so peaceful, she said.
When we took the body to the basement,
lined it up level with the drawer, it wouldn't fit.

The stumps jutted straight up. We had
to lift it to a sitting position, work the legs in first,
then lower him. Dead bodies
bruise easily; it's something most people

wouldn't know. Linda held the arms. I hugged him
and shoved hard. The stumps scraped. We were
doing this wrong. He faced backward.
The tag tied to his wrists. The night shift beginning.