Thank God no open casket
lies in the guest-of-honor position
in front of God and everyone to see.
Just a cigar box full of ashes
when at first I don’t realize
it’s the urn of the dear departed.
It looks like a box for treasures,
a box for secrets and discoveries.
The son speaks from his thoughts
jotted down on napkins
from a bar and ends,
“I love you, Dad.”
He opens the box
and slips the napkins inside.
I see the cremains, my last image
of Rick looking like dry concrete
in a box, like my cousin Gary
lying dead in his casket.
At least no one says
Rick looks like he’s sleeping.