DD - A Divorced Dad Plans His Funeral

Hey.

Here's today's Divorced Dad Poem.

A Divorced Dad Plans His Funeral

By the fourth hastily sipped scotch,

And the frustrated efforts to find an old college crush

On Facebook  (Did she marry,

Never pick up the desperate strain of self-broadcasting,

Did she ever move to Zambia and build wells for the Peace Corp,

Like she wanted)

There’s an unkempt pocket of yearning.

Itching, itching away.  Between his ribs.

Like a sparrow, rising with the morning sun,

Scratching at the dirt for kernels of corn.

So he opens a desk drawer. Seizes a pen,

A legal pad. Scrawls on the top:

MY FUNERAL.  He’s gonna bullet point this,

He decides.  Simple, precise.

Item one: NO FORMAL WEAR.

He nods with fervor, struggling to raise his head.

Item two:  OPEN BAR.

Item three: NO SPEECHES.

Item four: I’M SERIOUS. 

Item five (he refills the glass, fifth scotch): MAKE ME INTO A PINATA.

And he stops. Marvels at the sheer brilliance of the request.

Item six: FILL ME WITH MONEY AND GIFTS.

Nearly there, he reasons. The world’s getting wobbly.

Item seven: IF YOU COME, YOU HAVE TO GRAB THE STICK AND SWING.

Complete.  Those who hated him, his imperfect indiscretions, his garlic breath, his

Own ramshackle fumblings with physical
And the muddy practice of interpersonal love,

These poor creatures can at last be mollified.

They can come together,

Swing and curse and cry.

They can smash open his thin skin.

Wrench away the treasures, the value.

Collaborate, his chorus of disappointed attendants, in a final peace.

And with his list complete,

The last bit of energy fizzles.

He passes out, head to the desk,

Stray hand knocking the glass onto the pad.

Rendering the letters into a smudgy, water-logged mystery.

He sleeps, and as he sleeps, the sparrow in his heart

Tucks his beak into his wing, and closes his eyes,  in a temporary rest.