by Jack Myers
What’ll I do with my body when I’m dead?
The best times I ever had were spent sailing
in place so I vote for being buried.
But I’ve lived such a nomadic life
my children have drifted out like a smoke plume
coast to coast which’d make me hard to visit.
Maybe I should be shoveled from a crematorium
and sleep like a magic genie inside an urn
next to the trophy boasting of one thing I did well.
But wait! How about being scattered from a bridge
spanning this life to the next? It’d be the perfect symbol
of crossing over and my constant indecision. I think that,
my dear executor, makes the vote unanimous.