by Brett Rutherford
They watch for one another's
death notices.
While you are laid out
in the funeral parlor,
they come to your house
to yank the paintings
from off the walls,
your Chinese vases wrapped
in the remembered quilt
grandmother mistakenly
left to the unworthy heir.
Estates contested, their wills
not mentioning one another,
they initiate suits
to the delight of lawyers.
A quick cremation cheats
the hovering, pregnant fly,
the patient, boring worm,
the ghoul who would dig
for that last ruby ring.
Family? Ha! They'd take
the casket handles and hinges
for a scrap-metal sale.
Pall-bearers? Forget it!
A grave? Go dig your own!
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