Homage to the Undertaker

by David Citino

Even before my first baby clothes,
it was measured to fit my adult limbs alone,
a serious suit, pressed in front
but wrinkled where I'll come to lie.

The shoes already are laid out, shined
bright enough to return the degree
of wonder and grief to each who'll come near,
soles to stay unmarked because all the way

I'll be given a ride. White shirt,
appropriate for this world and the next,
and at my throat a sober tie,
flawless knot hiding the plastic clip.

No need for wallet, wristwatch, keys.
From the hour I began to wonder,
I've wanted to know when I'll be called
to be dressed this last time,

somebody else's masterpiece of fashion,
bloodless work of perfect art,
on my eyelids and lips until the end
of flesh the fingerprints of strangers.