pondering my death over peach whiskey at 1 am

I wonder if the person
who will embalm me
is alive right now?

how old are they?
do they know what their future holds?
are they already learning the trade?
or are they young
listening to goth or darkwave
thinking it romantic
to spend the night in graveyards
dying their hair black
cutting their flesh?
or are they children
worried about nothing
but the toy in the bottom
of the cereal box?
or are they a student at
Cypress College,
one of the most prestigious
mortuary science schools
this side of the Mississippi?
guy? girl? deformed? have a limp?
missing a finger?
will they be hot?
when I lay naked before them,
will they find me attractive?
will they think it a shame?
will they think my cock looks good?
will they touch me inappropriately?
will they have their way with me?
will they rob me of what little wealth
I have left?
will the cotton in my ass go in smooth?
will they have to reconstruct my face
for an open casket?
will they have to sew my head back on?
will I still smell of drink?
how much make-up will they apply?
what will they be putting on me to wear?

the casket will probably be closed.
I’m sure I’ll look a mess.

will they gaze upon my tattoos and wonder?
will they make a note of them?
will they wonder why?
will they rest their sandwich or donut
on my stomach?
will their day be a shitty one?
will they take it out on me?

I wonder what they will have for breakfast that morning?
or if they’d been fucked the night before?
are they in debt?
are their families assholes?
coffee or tea?
what’s their darkest secret?

maybe I should be cremated?

I don’t know?
I moved from wine to whiskey.
I light a cigarette and wonder,
why does my brain work the way it does?

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