They left what was left of him on white canvas walls
maroon and rouge plastered paint-spattered clots
in Rorschach design acrylic-crust drying
bits of brain that played games when alive.
They zipped him in a sack a human compost bag
rigor mortis-wobbling in black rigid plastic
yanked on a stretcher over tarry pavement cracks
past dry-eyed blank-faced neighbors.
He’d fantasized how the deed would go down,
paraded away through mourning congregations
that wept on shoulders and struggled to cope
as he passed in postmortem-chic robes,
resting in peace amid the procession
led by uniformed after-life servants
marching solemn in a moment of silence,
his memory exalted with honor.
“Nice,” said the medic holding his ID,