Post Mortem

I would like to die in my sleep,
peaceful rest becoming eternity.
But then again,  
I'd like for them to find me
with a half-eaten turkey sandwich
still in my mouth:
rotisserie roasted turkey
on artisan sourdough
or Jewish rye bread,
with slices of heirloom tomatoes,
strips of thick cut bacon,
mayo and alfalfa sprouts
instead of lettuce.
They will all lament that  
I didn't get to finish such  
a delicious sandwich.
Then they will examine  
my body and they will see
battle scars long since healed
and bumps and bruises  
from daily life and
they will know that I was a fighter
who lived a full life.
And when they cut open  
my stomach and they will find
an eight-foot alligator in it,
and they will know that  
in some battles  
the tables had turned.
Looking at the soles of my feet
they determine that I
had climbed many mountains
and stood on the shoulders of giants.
Though my struggles were many,
death had won at last,
as it always will.
A forever smile is still on my face
will cause them to say, "Clearly,
this man has loved many  
and was loved by many."
And when the examine is complete
and all of their questions are answered,
they will open the door,
let in the poets who  
have been patiently
waiting to claim my body.
The poets will tell them, "He was one of us."
They will leave carrying my body away
to the funeral pyre.
They will light the circle of fire ablaze  
and recite my verses and remember when.
As my ashes rise,
some laugh while others cry.
They'll all swear they will never forget,
but in truth the memory of me  
will only last four generations.
Yet, my words rise like a phoenix  
reborn and so,
my verses, yes, my poems will live on . . .
until this very day.