Lord, with all due respect,
would it be OK if I just stayed here
in Cleveland, in my own backyard,
perhaps in the form of ashes
mixed with mulch and manure
and strewn in the flower garden?

​

I’ll watch my kids playing in the sprinkler, 
or chasing each other 
with their light sabers through summer.

​

I will observe my wife 
grilling chicken on the barbecue, 
clearly not with the same skill 
as her late husband, although
she does seem to be improving,

​

as I can see from my vantage point
over here next to the hydrangeas,
which I so often failed to fertilize,
or weed, or even water
back when I was alive. 

​

Make yourself useful, 
she used to say, and here I am
doing exactly that.

​

—from the Rattle Chapbook Prize winner, Cheap Motels of My Youth