They will lower me into the hole they’ve dug in my yard,
My casket lined with VHS tapes and Sharpies,
USB cables coiled around my chest,
And a rotary telephone held in each cold hand.

My mouth filled with keys to forgotten doors,
A 9-volt battery covering each eye,
Resting on a cushion of thrift store t-shirts
Cradling my sketchbook-stuffed corpse.

Balancing atop a shifting platform of scrap plywood,
Old books, rub-on lettering, and coffee mugs,
A choir of well-meaning friends will burst forth in joyful melody,
“Everything must go! Everything must go!”

And the mourners, bravely choking back their tears and regrets,
Will be required to take home a minimum of ten compact discs,
To be prominently displayed in their homes as a shrine
For the laughing dead man who never has to move again.

* Originally published in Boston Accent Lit
* Read more short fiction