You’re in your coffin.
No morning alarm.
No coffee.
No eggs and toast.
Shaving’s not required,
Nor is a shower.
No need to get dressed for work.
You can stay in your Sunday best
until the last thread disintegrates.
No boring job, of course.
No complaints about why
Joe got a raise and you didn’t.
You’re removed from all
the frustrations, the heartbreaks,
the injustices, the complications,
of life.
But, after dark,
there are young punks
who run through the cemetery
knocking over headstones,
and scrawling graffiti on the angels.
All I ask is that
you take a few moments every night,
emerge from your grave,
rage and rattle,
roar and shake,
and scare the living crap
out of the intruders.
Sure, I know you’re dead
and figured you were
done with this world.
But think of your loved ones,
the sacrilege,
the brutal scarring of their feelings.
Go on, be part of the supernatural,
haunt a little.
It’s not as difficult as you imagine.
Some of us need it,
others deserve it.
And you’re dead...
which is a start.
