T. A. Cullen

Lying here in a white shirt and a black suit
on a bed of silk, with a small pillow
beneath my head. Hearing folks salute
my life, glad of the plot by the willow
tree. Knowing it weeps not for me
but for you. For if a phone should ring
I no longer have to answer it, I’m free.
At a Karaoke bar, I don’t have to sing.
Regardless of the game I can always sit
out, but you must go on with weddings,
funerals, listen to lame jokes, try to quit
smoking and drinking, - things keep heading

south - Me? There is only one thing I must do,
Lie in this box, until every one of you are through.