Bury me not

by John Davis

in the blue seersucker suit
the socks the pink handkerchief
fluted-up in a jacket pocket
not the pressed cotton shirts
starched edges not the neckties
paisley or striped red and white.

Such passion that fashion right down
to the boxers smelling of autumn
when moths find the wool overcoat
and O the holes there enough opening
for grief to find breathing room.

Bury me not in the swash of a sweater
the patterned roses the cherry-red
the brown bread cornbread threads
and no I don’t need a derby a ballcap
a winter hat for where I’m going.

Place me in the green sweatshirt painted 
with handprints when daughters 
prepared Father’s Day presents.
Cover me in that love
and jeans patched with suede leather.
I’ll be ready for any next.

PHOTO: William C. Crawford