All the Flowers in the World

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.