I know of a man whose ashes reside
In a box
in a bag
in a car.
His earthly remains tombed in white polyethelene
instead of a staid earthen jar.
He was put there one day by his third wife, Joan
who just wasn’t sure what to do
when handed a box with her husband inside -
Sprinkle him, bury him? She must think this through.
So she covered the box with a grocery store sack
To contain any possible spills
And set him on the back seat of a Toyota Corolla
With a blanket in case he got chilled.
She phoned all his children (of which there were many)
Whose love he would quite often brag
But they all curtly balked at taking their father
Leaving her quite literally holding the bag.
The last seven years of his life he existed
Locked up in a room with no view
With others just like him,
Bright eyes trapped in bodies
Not moving like they used to.
Now he enjoys quiet evenings alone
In a parking lot covered with stars
And day time with Joan as she putters about
Riding ‘round in the back of her car.
There’s no final resting place when you have errands
Must get groceries, the prescriptions, mail a letter.
He is certainly dead, the man in the box
But quite frankly, this life is better.