no trumpets blow
just friggin’ confetti
on the front lawn…
no final judgment day
just unpaid parking tickets
a state of death’s mediocrity
and old gray plastic chair
in a waiting room…
take a ticket, take a seat
you’re number eighty-four
someone took a piss
on the cracked linoleum
florescent lights
hum off key in B-flat
the half-off, coupon
for the mortuary
has expired
your widow refuses
to pay for plastic
handles on the casket
the door of the hearse
squeaks when opened
then falls off…
the casket has lost
the Wi-Fi signal
the cemetery workers
are on lunch break…
your formaldehyde
is leaking
no final speech
or eulogy
just George Jones
singing: “Who’s
gonna fill their shoes?
Who’s gonna stand that tall?
Who’s gonna play the Opry
and the Wabash Cannonball?
back at the house
the TV is still muted
on the porn channel….
with a half- eaten
sleeve of saltines…
RuPaul is on commercial
break
