Them Bones, Them Bones... (Poetry)

I’ve been gazing at my skeleton —
backbone, ribs and shoulder blades
white and glowing in the lighted frame —
while the doctor shakes his head
                                and looks nonplussed,
for the x-ray gives no clues.

Sorry — his shrug professional — he still
can’t explain or diagnose what’s wrong.

It seems my bones are fine strong specimens
and one thing’s sure —
they will outlast the flesh...

Maybe one day, millennia ahead,
some fossil-seeking archaeologist
will dig me up and practise irony —
recognise and note the cause of death.