When we die society dumps us
into the obligatory 6 feet of ground.
Or - for the faint of heart -
seals us away in marble
crypts, To save money,
they place us on a funeral pyre
as they barbecue us to cinders.
Who would recognize you in that state?
(A woman opens the urn
and takes a sniff. Yes, that’s him.
That’s my Harry.)
With our last exhalation,
We become something to hide,
a secret, shunned.
Think of all the people who’ve tread
upon this planet. Endless.
What do we do with them?
We have plundered the Earth
along with all the plastic detritus
of our lives. Recycling doesn’t exist,
just accrual upon accrual,
the garbage barge
no one owning it.