When the Fat Lady Sings

[71degrees]

And it’s time, I would like
music to murder me—
something elegant, like Chopin—
perhaps I could pre-write
the lyrics; after all, I wouldn’t want
people at my funeral merely humming ,
or worse, tapping a scuffed shoe
to a wordless tune of a life

I’d rather die with a soft song
in my head: something with violins—
like cricket legs rubbing together
on the first frost of October—
a white haired preacher with a thin baton,
plus Jesus Christ himself at the back door,
making sure no one leaves early