My Funeral

The smell of dry
earth permeates
the air surrounding
turned dirt. I stand
watching my mourners
pass around a joint,
swig from a tarnished flask.
The jocks:
track stars, boys in baseball pants.
The artists:
wannabe hippies,
flamboyant hair colors
shrouded in layers of black.
No tears
trailing down cheeks
into the dust.

My own impurities dying, confined within a coffin.
Handfuls of dirt tossed onto polished walnut. I lean
in and sprinkle fine, red soil on the casket. I drift away
as memories of my corrupted past float by.

The headstone radiates
heat; the sun's glare blinds
the view of my two engraved
birth-dates, and a single death.

As my new life begins,
I turn and forge a new path
along cracked earth.