The nice thing about being dead
is you no longer care if the doctor
mucked up your diagnosis and the
pharmacist gave you the wrong pills.
You’re cozy now in a comfy casket
six feet below all the carnage
in the world, without a worry, when
a mastodon tsunami rolls over your
peaceful cemetery and uproots
thousands of caskets, tossing them
high in the sky and forcing you
and all the other zombies to float.
You discover no port will take
You have no papers, after all;
you can’t prove who you were or are
so you and the other zombies float
for God knows how long since
God may not believe in zombies.
This is a rupture not a rapture.
And while you float, your lawyer
meets with your relatives who
no longer weep about your passing.
They smile as he reads your will.
They plan on taking a family cruise
with the proceeds from your estate.
They’ll dine on lobster and steak,
lay waste continuous buffets while
you and the other zombies float
further out, unable to find a port
where citizens will bury the likes of you.
Property values will drop, they shout.
They can’t drop their signs and let you in.
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