The Pajamas of Death
 
Death's pajamas arrived in the mail
One pair plaid flannel
The other a blue and white stripe
Death is not known for his choices
 
I knew they were Death's pajamas
From Death was written in the top
left corner of the package
A PO Box underneath
 
It's so nice to get pajamas from Death
The feel of fleece upon my skin
Instead of the rattling chains
And the shrieking in the night
Scaring the willies out of everyone

The Writer
 
He wrote his whole life
It wasn't much
They liked his laundry
Piled in colors
On the bathroom floor

My Funeral
 
Uncle Dave died last week
The church was full of people
He was so popular dead
Of course his wife was there
and their children,
seven of them all married
so their spouses came, too
and they'd had children of their own,
most of them. Fourteen grandchildren
in different sized shoes.
But it didn't end there
the cousins also showed
and their spouses and their children,
the circle of relatives widening,
concentric rings on still water.
Yet still it didn't end,
the neighbors came, and people
who just happened to be passing
the church by chance
entered on a whim
along with the perusers of obituaries,
and shoppers, all come
to show their respects.
 
I'm sorry Dave died but I'm wondering
about my own funeral,
not the dying bit I've no worries there.
But that no one will show,
that no one will even know I died
much less care enough
to let it intrude upon their schedule.
 
My wife will make it,
that is if her Pilates class
doesn't conflict.

New York City
 
How I love Sundays
In New York, all day looking
For a parking spot

Time
 
At least the days
have all got better jobs.
They speed through the week
in their red Ferraris,
top down, scarf
flapped out behind
them in the wind.
 
Just last week Tuesday
went by in a Lear jet.
I hear the snap of sound
breaking as they tear past.
 
Right before they collapse
in on themselves
like black holes,
I think I see them waving goodbye.