She cringed when she sat at the table.
The wake will be two to eight,
The flowers will arrive at noon,
Do you want a traditional funereal,
The undertaker calmly waited.
As she thought about what he would say;
"I wouldn’t be caught dead in a tie."
Then what shall he wear,
A suit coat,
A pocket watch? Cuff links made of gold,
Pressed slacks the leg crease equally matched,
White dress shirt hiding his tattoos,
A thin striped tie,
His long curls cut and facial hair trimmed,
No diamonds in one ear.
"I think not," she said.
The pockets will be frayed on an old pair of jeans,
The belt loops tattered and torn,
His chap's worn season's past,
The vest with a three piece patch,
Two diamonds in one ear,
His Rolex watch he will wear along with his wedding band and cross,
He will be comfortable in a Harley Davidson T-shirt,
His tattoos will show with pride,
His mustache and beard suited him just fine along with his long blond hair,
Love letters in the pocket of a short leather jacket.
Regardless of the traditional burials in the past, she had him placed in a soft leather coffin,
Eyes closed, his hands resting on his chest,
One more thing she remembered before she closed the lid, his words upon his death bed;
“Don’t bury me without my boots on, I can’t ride without them and how can I come back and get you when someone else needs to dress you.”