A charcoal suit hangs in the closet,
it stays clean and freshly pressed.
Fine leather shoes, always polished.
A selection of silk ties,
each blacker than the last.

He keeps his fingernails clean,
he is efficient.
His back stays straight,
he ignores the pain in his feet.
He knows what to say, and
when to say nothing.

Callused hands that whisper
the names of the dead.
Gray of eye,
soft of speech.
Lips well acquainted with,
"they will be missed."

He practices his smile,
warm but at a distance.
His presence is not unwelcome.
He does his job well,
and never once asked,

"Who will carry me
when my time comes?"