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It’d been a shitty day but I knew I’d gone too far
when I stepped into the funeral director’s office.
I had to check my feet – thought I’d come out
in my slippers, the carpet was so plush.
An assistant offered cake and capsule coffee.
I almost accepted.

No limits on indulgence here: I could choose
my preferred make-up brand, perfume,
hair styling products, funeral gown.

An eco dispatch, a new tree growing
out of my remains, fancy that!
Generations of children scrambling
along my branches, flicking threads of sunlight
from their eyes. Oh, to live on in laughter
and skint knees…!

The comfort of my casket would make beggars
want to die. Why crouch in draughty doorways
when you could lie in luxury?

£400 conjures twelve grieving guests.
Flowers and music extra. For the death
that goes on giving, I can buy an urn
to guarantee the gathering of more dust.
No vague undignified scatterings
for my remains, a fancy box perpetuates
the illusion I’m still here, while you watch telly,
munch a burger, nibble on your fries.