I drove the hearse to my funeral today.
What a ride, accompanied by an organ
version of Handel’s Messiah on my cellphone.
Took forever. The final ride, I mean.
Gloomy faces in the side-view mirrors
cast downward. Brows sullen like
Monday morning, desolate. I was the only
clown in the procession, ferryman out of
sight. Typical. I imagined the willows
lining the roadway were Buckingham
guards weeping for me, white-crowned
sparrows on their muscular branches
singing my rapture. Teetering butterflies,
drunk off random wildflowers, zig
zagged in air dances, barely noticed. I saw the
mausoleum up ahead, its dour façade
egging me on, whispering promises only
I and sextons understand. No time for
a last feast. My hunger was AWOL anyway.
My obituary, short: He came, he saw,
dodged a few bullets, conquered zilch.
Mountains aren’t meant to be scaled;
they’re too busy admiring their streams to
notice the fools attempting the slopes.
All the Flowers in the World
Robin Ray