Bury me Standing

When I die bury me standing; don’t lay me flat,

stretched out on my back, stand me straight,

plant me upright, plant me like a tree, bury me

with dignity. I’ll be dead for an eternity so stand me

don’t lay me flat, like meat on a cold, hard slab

waiting for butcher Fate, with his bloodied apron

to slice me asunder. Stand me up, push my lips

into a grin, stick a quill in my hand, paper in the other;

let me stand facing sunrise with a thousand new poems

to capture. When I die don’t listen to the undertaker —

drop me vertically; let me face the future as if

I was in the wings waiting for my cue to re-enter.