A True Story.

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.