My Inheritance

A cardboard box

Your shroud

Grease-stained coveralls

Draped over a tool chest

As a funeral home tapestry

But in a garage

Where opened quarts of 10W-30

Stand in as floral arrangements

And the smell of gasoline

In accordance with burial customs

Reminds those in mourning

That while it is a holding room

You would’ve chosen

You are indeed

Already

Gone