"Bury Me On The Back Of A Harley"
When I die I want no eulogies,
no sermon by a well meaning minister.
No ‘Amazing Grace’ or classical rendition
of Moonlight Sonata. Let it be
“Fat-Bottomed Girls” by Queen.
Leave the flowers in the garden.
Please give me no tired poetry
by some anonymous someone
about footsteps in the sand.
Mine are washed away
by an incessant tide. If you must
recite a poem then let it be profane,
something by Bukowski.
Speak in anecdotes:
when my pants fell down in Safeway,
when I stuck my tongue to a metal ice tray,
when I dropped that quarter down the ass-crack
of that man at the laundry.
I want to be buried in my night gown.
When you speak of the men I loved,
don’t forget the head games.
Make it saucy, embellished
with freakish fantasy.
Don’t make me haunt you
like a bad movie.
open bar-
remember me
with a party
© 2005 Rhonda Maltbie
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